i shouldn't choose favourites but i loved her more. she pulled me into her arms, smelled so sweet, like candy and dough, and loved me so much. she beamed; literally and honestly beamed. she was the centre of that town. no one fucked with her. of course, she never swore. she washed church clothes, helped out with bazaars, made the best jam jam cookies ever and now she is simply a memory in a string of hazy familial relationships that have come and gone. when i spoke of this town i always referred to the little white house across the street from that church. it used to be part store, part house for six people at one time. now someone else lives there and it isn't the same. it doesn't mark my map properly anymore. so many babies were born there and now some assholes probably use it as a summer cottage. quaint. gross.
last time was so easy. i can't even believe how easily we slipped in with barely any concern. now there is over-concern. your good intentions aren't actually that good at all. i don't understand it but i have a perverse fascination with trying to. their beliefs are everything and they mean nothing to me so we are at a crossroads. they yell on one side and i yell right back on the other; they scream about goodness or duty, while i say something about fascists and city life. funerals are for everyone else but the deceased. you're ruining it and you don't even care.
