Caroline Foss
Rosie told me a story about a little girl.
She told me in Spanish, so I couldn’t follow every word, but I caught the horrible drift. There was a machine or a piece of metal, and after it happened, no one was ever the same. I didn’t fully understand, but I knew it was a kindness to listen and pretend that I did and hold it for her as she gave it to me – in pieces. Later, after everything, after she had stolen my jewelry and my shoes and my sentimental things, after she held my newborn son and couldn’t lift her gaze to meet mine, I realized that everything or many things were lies. But somehow, I knew that story was true, and whatever it was, I wish it wasn’t.
losing our grip on purpose 