Unborn
We’re at some kind of rally. The night before, my mom was using spray paint and old boxes to make signs the night before in our garage, while my sister and I ran through the sprinkler, shrieking. All I know for sure is I’m between 6 and 10 years of age, because my mom is alive and healthy, and we’re living in our second house. Now, in the crowded parking lot outside a building with a balcony, where a man will soon be giving a speech, she’s clutching each of us with one hand while my dad and Connie (my cousin who after my mom’s death would become a mother figure) carry the signs. “He’s the best thing we’ve had since Kennedy,” my mom tells Connie while he’s speaking. “I can’t wait to vote for him.” I wish I could remember who we went to see, what the signs said. “I’m going to try to go meet him,” my dad says after the speech. “I want to find out what he thinks about Cyprus.” “You need to go up there and thank him for what he’s already said about Cyprus. That’s the way to...