zoepagoaga's version from 2017-11-08 03:46


Is that all there is to say? ‘Cuz that doesn’t even mean anything. In 1971, I wasn’t even around yet. But that’s when she was really alive, I think. She had a grey streak in the front of her hair. Premature grey. She had it for years until she finally got sick of the giggles and stares and she dyed it like the rest of them. I don’t even remember barely. I was so little. She used to tell us things, but I can barely remember and I can’t ask her again! I can’t say, Hey, Mom, tell me things I never listened to! Tell me how to make sugar cookies so they’re soft in the middle! Tell me how to sweep my hair up so it holds with just a pin! Tell me what it feels like when your water breaks and a baby comes out! I don’t have anybody to tell me that! I hate my Dad! I’m sorry, but I hate him so much! How could he just keep going? I don’t understand how he could just keep going! Is that what happens? You're young, and you believe in things, and then you, what? You get married, you have kids, you move into a Spanish stucco ocean view unit and you forget? One day you wear your white streak like a peacock's tail, and the next day you're letting them paint it with bleach and toner and wrap it in tin foil and sitting under a hair dryer to cook for an hour while you learn lip-lining tips from a beauty magazine! Like everybody else! When you sit under those dryer domes, you can't hear a thing. You just have to sit there quietly and let all that stuff soak into you. She's really been gone for a long long time. I don't want to be a dead person. I want to be a person who's alive.