knocked on my blue door.
To understand that knock, you need to know what had been happening back in Dayton.
Over four years, the word disappeared had gathered entire stories around itself.
One version said I had gotten involved with substances.
Whispered, never confirmed.
Another suggested some controlling boyfriend had isolated me from everyone.
That one would almost be funny if it weren’t so ugly.
My mother presided over every theory in the same way.
Never confirming.
Never denying.
Maintaining the soft glow of martyrdom.
The sorrowful queen of every
