This time, the therapist was interested in my mother. My mother, I said, has kinky hair. What else? she asked. A long face and pointy teeth. What does she do? Well, I said, when she was not dangling clothing by the arms or the ankles off the balcony she would stir her wooden spoon around a tin pot, in a counter-clockwise motion, and if she was not busy doing that, she was chasing after us with curses and promises that she would dig our graves. Can you elaborate? the therapist asked. Can you be more specific? I asked in return. Yes. Did you like her? Was she nice to you? Yes, I said, she was wonderful, even when I was hanging on to her apron begging her not to leave us, even when I was hiding behind the dresser, watching her jeer in my father’s face, betting with my sister which of her eyes would get the first punch (I always bet on the left side), even when I was chasing a few flying dollar bills as she screamed, What am I supposed to buy with this?
