| Untagged | 25 Jun 2009 |
| Poof by Rustin Larson | Comment (0) |
Breath. I suppose there was a gathering, a party of sorts. When I was one, my identity was my mother. When she laughed so did I, and when she cried… I enjoyed the spoonfuls of mush she fed me, the tiny jars of turkey or chicken sausages. When I was older, maybe I was five or six, I disappeared for a moment. I was sitting on the floor of the kitchen and then
