Blah Blah Blah
When my mom speaks, it’s not my fault that all I hear is “blah blah blah.”
Because that is what she’s saying.
“I’m going out,” I say, and she looks at me in a sad way, shaking her head in confusion; I don’t think she understands me. I wonder why I bother announcing these things.
I slide across the floorboards of the entryway onto the porch. Rod is already waiting for me. I push aside the oleander-white sneakers on the shoe rack for the black, moth-eaten ones hidden behind them. Their soles are
so thin I can feel the texture of the ground. There’s a hole near the back. For some reason, this seems to bother Rod more than me. Once, I tried wearing the new white sneakers, but he stopped me, “You’ve always worn the other ones,” he said.
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