March, 38 Minutes Old

Today: A wet snow smothered crocuses flung wide under yesterday's sunlight. Overnight their thin violet petals had spun shut. I laughed at their angry little peaks.

Tonight I am just keeping my fingers moving, no real thoughts:

I was a kid yanking on a phone cord in a faded linoleum kitchen on my tip-toes peering down a hallway. Little girls were everywhere in pigtails and stupid pink party dresses.

My fingers slick with potato chip grease and tears, I clung to the mouthpiece. I want to come home, I told my mom. I want to come home. Cupcake icing was in my hair and I was a wreck.

I had not been there long, three houses from home in a strange kitchen bright with Saturday morning light kicking through flimsy lace curtains, but in a way, I have been there forever.