I sit in my car. My long brown hair is tied back, thinning; I haven’t yet cut it off and thrown it to the birds to make nests, like my mom taught me. Two of my car windows are visible behind me, with more windows visible behind them, of cars and apartments and an empty bank. I’m showing off my new purple hippo earrings that dangle gleefully from my ears, enjoying the ride. I’m biting my lip to contain a smile I’m not sure I’ve earned, but I think I see it in my eyes, still. I’m wearing the long-sleeved jean shirt with my grandparents’ wedding photo embroidered small onto the chest, that my dad gave me when I was eight. I’m glad he gave me giant clothes as a kid, and that my body has grown to hold them. My eyes are not looking directly at the camera, but at the screen, just below.
Alt Text Selfies
