"It's getting closer," she says. "It's getting closer, going to Richmond." She goes upstairs to her emptying room. "Look at my bedroom," she tells me. "Go inside. I'm lucky. My bedroom is clean... I guess it's a play room now."
|Cheapola glassware (fireplace shelves) - alleys and free boxes; cast iron love note bowl - Ontario; mirror - estate sale; tree of life (hanging) - Metepec, Mexico; Pineapple boy (window ledge) - Taxco, Mexico; red chair - neighbour's mother|
My son has a heart as pure and good as an angel. A swearing angel whose vocabulary is guns and strategy and dank memes, which I'm not permitted to repeat.
When he drives he takes me to places of bizarre imagination, wonderful surprises, and clever wit I simply do not understand on my own. When we connect he guides me there. I give over my confusion, my exasperation, and I can see - not the sharp tip of the pyramid showing above the sand, but the base that supports it, buried deep below. It is a foundation of caring, tolerance, openness, desire to do good, temperance, and love.