crazy-bubble

I. Out on the porch, my mother sat in an Adirondack chair, smoking her first cigarette in ten years. The air was hazy and discolored. Her wedding ring spun on the table, gathering fallen ashes. I was on the floor, knees tucked up under my chin, poking sticks down the cracks. She spoke of lies and imagined bliss. She tucked her hair behind her ear and sighed. I listened as my mother explained the complexity of love. II. Last night he drove just over the state border. I sat in the car, feet up on the dashboard, singing with the radio. He looked at me like he had a secret. He was the sage and I was the fool. So there we were, lying