jasmyn

You hop in on a balmy afternoon late into junior year at Chicopee Comp. Bantering brassily with your friend before we drop him off, you seem in total control. He tries to keep up but knows he never could. 

Forty-five minutes later, car idling in front of a punched-in house with a muddy yard, you tell me, eyes glistening, you’d moved in here with your dad because your mom beat you.

I catch your eyes: “Oh dear.”

You don’t know why. You look down. You don’t think you were that bad.

I turn to you: “You are not bad.”

Releasing into quiet sobs, you say, “I really needed to hear that.” 

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