into a church waving evidence like a process server.
Paper was my mother’s language.
Ledgers.
Envelopes.
Receipts against the soul.
I was done speaking it.
I didn’t write a speech.
When I read from notes, I sound like a discharge summary.
Besides, I had been carrying the truth word for word for four years.
Every night shift had been rehearsal.
Every first of the month.
Every Christmas card.
Instead, I did ordinary things.
Ironed my navy dress with a motel iron that barely worked.
Braided Marin’s hair.
Let her pick
