Page 7 - My FlipBook

mother the one who leaves or the one who stays even though
she should go?
I checked what was inside those bags. In one bag was a ratty
old stuffed dog missing a ear. Her honey-bear bong and a dime
bag. (And let me share my disappointment that a dime bag don’t
actually got no dimes in it, believe me.) Pictures of herself at
the beach. Queen Helena hair gel. A lock of my brother Zane’s
hair. (See B for Burner and G for Gas.)
She always leaves a note. It says: I know you’ll never forgive
me. But you’ll always love me. I know it. I still love my mother. The
bitch. (The bitch is crossed out, but I can still read it through the
scribble.) All my love, Yasmin.
But she always never leaves. Always acts like those bags
aren’t still in the back of her closet, waiting. In the morning,
I always look for the piece of tape hanging on the front door
where the note was. Always find all the empty kitchen cabinets
open like she wants us to know there’s nothing left for us here.
The stuffed dog is back in that bashed-up box of hers. She got
it from the group home when she left at thirteen. The bong and
the dime bag are back in her panty drawer. The gel is on the
kitchen sink where she does her hair when somebody’s stunk up
the bafroom. The pictures of me on the dresser have never left.

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