I would always let her back in,
my mother. No matter what she did or who she did it with, she was my mother.
It
was late one night and we were living in Detroit. On Florida street, if my
memory serves me well. It was dark and all I could see was the glow of the streetlights reflecting off the wet pavement. I sat in the backseat like a pet. I was
my mother’s pet.
I tried not to touch her too much because I had seen the ways
that cats got under their masters' feet and then began to annoy them. They
wished they’d never shown the cat any damn attention in the first place. I
would not make that mistake.
I was well-educated on the behaviors that suited
my mother. Stay out of her fucking way.
And if she touched you, stay as still as possible because a miracle is
currently taking place and you don’t want to screw it up. I never wanted to
surprise her when she stroked my hair, so I sat like her toy and let her do
whatever she wanted to me. I didn’t care if I was like a bag she threw in the
backseat as she drove down the back alley.
I just cared that I was her toy.
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