“Depression is not the name of what I have.”
She picks up a corroded penny from the coffee table. “1938,” she says.
“The year before Hitler invaded Poland,” I comment.
I need to get outside. I told the principal at my school that I have terminal cancer. Sometimes, I miss my students. I’ve taught them bad grammar. Now, I try to focus my will. I need to get Sylvia to a haven, to a new family where scrotums aren’t revered and arteries aren’t coveted for their souls. I need to get her away, to the brightest sun, to a new list of things-to-do-before-you-die, to hair that is brushed without malfeasance, and to a home where teeth are simply teeth.
She needs to be able to secrete without consequences.
She is the only daughter I’ll ever have.
She’s made of perfect flesh and bone.
Her ears ar
