Everything within takes place after Jack died and before my mom and I drowned in a burning ferry in the cool tannin-tinted Guaviare River in the east central Columbia, with forty-two locals we hadn't yet met.
It's not that our family has no taste, it's just that our family's taste is inconsistent.
She had seemed good for a while, had done the chemo, had gotten the wigs, and then her hair had grown back-darker, more brittle.
The house is a factory.
They took my mother's stomach out six months ago.
Through the small tall bathroom window the December yard is gray and scratchy, the tree calligraphic.
When the doctor opened her up, and there was suddenly light thrown upon the world of cancer-podules, they were annoyed by the disturbance, and defiant.
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