robert burns wa hae

mosaics are ugly

except once

and you are 

a bunch of broken stuff

put together

Some video of her when she was a child made more sense than staring at her now.  Grown, we laugh and say, "Oh, put put, wasn't that silly?"  It looks out-dated and sad, like when you get a gift you don't really like, or when you disappoint your mother.  Like knowing someone hasn't really done what they set out to, and are okay with it.  Because of you, perhaps, or because of themselves.  We're not really sure.

So we watched.  Mine were of me in costumes and at dances and with braces and shaking people's hands.  Hers were much the same.  We watched them, craving peanut butter.  

When they were over I went to my room and sat in 1991.  It was nice there, I wore pastel and velcro shoes, and I had no inclination that anyone I know existed.  And I suddenly desperately wanted boobs.

Nothing looks like this, I thought. 

Sometimes when the seasons change, I can smell it.  For a split second it is the first day of kindergarten, I've walked there, my mother is tearing up, and my father makes sure I know where I am.  I only moved my pin one time.

I fell asleep in 1991 and dreamt of driving to Lubbock before school started.  It was hot, but we went swimming and that was nice.