She sketched mountains, valleys, the clouds, the scene from the window of our trailer. Even as a child, I knew her drawing wasn’t very good, but she didn’t seem to care. Neither did I. I sat watching her for a long time. As she drew, her tongue moved in her mouth like a lizard’s. It was always strange to me that when my mother wasn’t talking or eating, her tongue kept moving, twisting, flicking. I used to watch the lizards on the rocks near our trailer, and I saw how their tongues flicked even when they had no insect to grab. The connection between my mother and lizards fascinated me and I began to think about these cold-blooded creatures—their nocturnal habits, their love of warm rocks, the swiftness of their movements when danger was near. But none of this gave me any clues to understanding my mother. It just seemed as if they both flicked their tongues even when they had nothing to land on. Nervous tongues with nothing to do. That day my mother must have grown impatient with me hovering at her side.
