his official relationship
to me,
she added disgusting details
about her fabricated illness,
used them to make a hasty
escape. Like anyone believed her.
MEMORY LANE
Is an ugly stroll. I’m working hard
to turn the corner when Dad finally
calls, Let’s go, girls. I can hear
a big ol’ burger mooing my name.
Does he have even the faintest
idea how stupid that sounded?
Maybe not. But evidently Kortni
does. Burgers don’t moo, idiot.
Idiot. Nice. This little outing should
go well. I settle into the rotting
backseat of Dad’s decrepit Chevy
Impala. Stinks like cigarette-
tainted armpit drip. Reminds
me again of Mom. How can
she ruin every holiday (even
the ones that don’t feel much
like holidays) without even being
there? Why can’t I just forget her?
BUT SHE’S ON MY MIND
As Dad weaves down the rutted
dirt toward the highway, Kortni
chattering like an irritated crow.
Unusual, considering the amount