10.28.22

And all of these things that I've forgotten that I can't tell you about. All of these people, with their hands pressed up against their lives. There was this generation, and the one before it and the one before it and the one before it and the one before it. In the kitchen I tell my sister that people talk about their children with a fascination that children don't afford their parents. Why don't children talk about their parents like that I say. Why would they she says. Children only start talking about their parents when they start caring about them like they are also human beings. 

My grandmother walks in wearing a pink shirt. She's hungry and my mother has told her to sit back down in front of the tv and wait. My grandma says she'll go on a walk and she pretends not to hear my mother when she yells at her to stay inside. I'll go with her I say. So I do. The sun is setting outside and it matches color of her shirt. She asks me how long I'm staying this time and I say a day. On cue she tells me it's too short of a time to be at home. At least three or four days she says. You should stay at least three or four with how long you've been gone already. She asks about my rent and my pay. I realize I don't know how to say the amount I make a year in our language. I tell her I make a few thousand dollars a month. A plane flies overhead. I know our time is running out but I've never known what to do with it. Time is catching up to me and love has its hand on my shoulder.