Vieques is calling. It’s my big Sis. I answer with enthusiastic anticipation of a Group hi followed by childish laughter.
The sound of her heavy tears of dread.
“Mom is being mean. She is drunk on Verite. She is shouting at me. She says don’t come close”. Mom wants to slap me.
I want to sleep. I need silence. You know I need silence. Mom tells me I am difficult. She asked me to sing a song earlier. She praised me. She praised us.
Mom won’t let me leave. I am trapped in the room. “You remember when we were kids?” We can’t escape. We stay until dinner. We stay in our room.
I listen. I am empathetic. I validate her trauma. We bare witness of us.
Maslow’s Hierarchy.
I believe Mom is showing signs of early-onset dementia. Daddio’s serosa are being eaten alive.
Her mourning coffee 