after looking at the clock wrong. I looked up from my work and there she was, confused, disoriented. “Why is it still dark?” she asked. To calm her a little, I asked if she would let me comb the hair on the back of her head, which gets tangled when she lies with her head on her pillow. Who says there are no advantages to giving birth to a homosexual? I combed carefully, separating the strands with my fingers where her hair is matted. “Don’t pull it,” she said. “Last time you did.” “I didn’t mean to.” “My head is tender.” “I’m watching out.” “Are you going to make me wear those shitty shoes today?” Her days are filled with little hurts. When I try to pat my mother’s back, she says, “No, no.” Her arms are as tender and reluctant: She gets angry if I take hold too tightly.
