Thought.is

I learned what charcoal tastes like, what hospitals smell like, what a mother’s desperate grip feels like. When I was little, she would sometimes grab my wrist instead of my hand to cross the street. I always asked if she was mad when she did this. She never was.

I wanted to say that I didn’t mind going slow, even if my roller coaster heart quivered from thinking too fast, that I didn’t mind your high lows and your low highs, because we could tread together through the middle lines.