| Our paper house sat on the banks of the red river and though mother wasn’t like other mothers I was like other girls trapped and lonely and painting pictures in the stars. I was slick with old birth or early longing, already halfway between who I wanted to be and who I was. Our floors were made of flame but there was no wind so we were as safe as anyone. When spring came, I walked for a very long time up I-35, and at the end of the road, I found a boy who placed earphones onto my head and pumped opera into my body. I can feel it still. Underneath that treeless sky, I was as changed as I would ever be. Not even mother noticed. Copyright © 2015 by Nicole Callihan. Used with permission of the author. |
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