I look at the baby doll abandoned on the floor next to its ripped box, its unblinking blue eyes staring back at me. One of its fat cloth legs has been ripped off in the fight.
On my way out of the closet I noticed a trunk at the edge of the bed... An antique padlock hooked through the clasp, but it was unlatched, so I slid it out and opened the trunk.
Your eyes follow their tiny finger and, sure enough, there’s a nine-millimeter handgun lying in the middle of your neighborhood street at eight in the morning on Fat Tuesday.
Once my father finishes and leaves, my mother leans back into her chair, rests her eyes on the clock above us, and begins to recall the lovers of her past.
She hits the button to go live and slowly eats something. It could be anything: an apple, a banana, a small granola bar. Comments fly in, encouraging her.