Wallet

The other night, my mother lobbed a grenade at me, “What’re they like?”

I quietly said, "They’re the type to keep a picture of their wallet in their wallet, you know the type." 

Later, as darkness folded around my bed, that thought spun wildly in my head. The walls of my skull pressed inward, a throbbing ache set in like a relentless seismic tick. Loneliness surged up like a huge wave in the deep ocean, powerful yet pathetic, because it swelled and died unseen, unfelt by any shore. 

This crushing pain swamped me, and I wanted to scream it at you, wanted to tell you how devastatingly hollow it felt. But my words crumbled; my language collapsed, my lips failed me. Every letter that dared escape my lips began its descent into the ground, sinking, drowning, lost. 

I kneeled down and put my mouth on the ground, tongue like a fishing rod, scouring the earth for meaning, sharpening my teeth on tenderness and devotion, only to leave toothless like a baby.