She apologizes for all the vitriol she ever flung at me, crying thick tears through false eyelashes. She holds my hands with nails lacquered violet. She kneels before me, her shimmering skirt unwrinkled by the movement. Even her five o’clock shadow has been put to rest. A hairline I once watched recede is handily buried beneath luscious curls, voluminous as mine were before I hacked them off. The perfect shade of foundation blends the sun-scarred skin of her forehead into her cheeks.
She moves with supreme Black elegance, each gesture power incarnate. In these dreams, her beauty is effortless. The fiery drama of the fallout of our nuclear family has long since cooled to ash, long held shouting matches stretched into years of silence. He has made his feelings on my ‘gender deviance’ clear. In life, we are many years estranged, per his wishes. In my worst nightmares, my father transitions. We’re almost there! Please give what you can today. We’ve set a goal of raising $10,000 by the end of June.
Electric Literature recently launched a new creative nonfiction program, and received 500 submissions in just 36 hours! Now we need your help to grow our team, carefully and efficiently review submitted work, and further establish EL as a home for artful and urgent nonfiction.
0 kommentar(er)
