In truth, I was not ready for the Binding of Isaac. I was not ready to be sacrificed, so I made the sacrifices I found necessary. It is said that my soul was there at Sinai, that the choice had already been made for me. I was not ready.

I got French tips with a rose-colored glaze. For forty minutes, I allowed a stranger to hold my hands and fondle the ten details I still had left of her. My finite proof that she was here, a sort of manicured perception of permanence.

When the sun sets, I dream of the daughter I do not have. Who will never feel the seasons change; who will only know the ocean as a black hole breathing in plastic

Our role in Darren’s struggle upsets me. I think back to how we parented Darren, and I feel strongly that our home was full of love, affection, and support. Of course, every parent makes mistakes, but what were ours? It’s hard not to fixate on our parenting flaws.

The silver shafts of my hair have convinced the others to soften and the spring of my life is blanketed, protected in a winter frost.

In a few minutes, I’ll make my way back to bed. I’ll slip in as gingerly as possible as the supporting role in your ruse, and I’ll close my eyes and listen to your breathing. I don’t know how long it’ll take me to fall asleep—or you, for that matter. But we will sleep, eventually. We will dream, eventually. We will meet in the morning, eventually.

A woman, a wife and a mother, goes out to the store and comes home with tiny limes, with Pepsi soda, with english muffins, with all the ingredients for a home cooked meal taken from the page in a yellowed family cookbook.