You could write the history of my mother's days in cuticles. The days they are out and overgrown, some man must have not called back after a few days. You'd notice. She’d chew on them staring at the phone. The carpet in our living room worn from laying out tracks where she would run to beat us to the phone when it rings, hoping this time, this lover, changed his mind and called after all.
I look at my baby brother his hunger screams are much louder than that phone on the wall but she acts like she doesn't hear him. I feed him like I'm doing now. His cheek has a healing cut where her fresh pressed nails “accidentally” scratched him once. Those were the days. She had date after date, the phone didn't know how to stop ringing, the carpet had no tracks.
The curve of my baby brother's fists have similar Scratches- all healed now. No scratches since mister Cadillac stop coming. Those were her good days or were they his bad?
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