INDIGNANT

Ten years ago, my parents, Robert and Sheila, were killed in a car accident on Christmas Day. A head on collision with a drunk driver took them away from me. It turned out that both front airbags were defective. They were coming back from looking at Christmas lights. My seven-year-old daughter was in the back seat. She was not wearing her seatbelt. She was thrown from the wreckage. She died instantly.

“You need me! Without me … you’re nothing! I keep you alive.” “Are you kiddin’ me? This isn’t living.” “How dare you interrupt me! You entitled, insecure, unappreciative little brat! I give you hope. I give you purpose. I give you meaning. If you leave me now, you’ll die. You’ll have nothing to get you…

When you were young, before my siblings and I were born, before you kissed our father— elevating him from bachelor to prince— you made shadows of figure 8 patterns with your shoulders and head on the Nicaraguan dirt.   A pendulum swing of brown cascading pigtails and a homemade skirt that made all the rich…