by Erin Iwata
There were days when I couldn’t change my clothes, and you liked that, the way you could talk to me all day and go nowhere. You never wanted to let go of anything, but I made you, because it was the things that kept me tied down. Even though I knew this was no way to live, there were bright moments. Once, I woke you up way past your bedtime to show you the constellations from the cold lawn because we were discussing galaxies. Even then I was frustrated that you couldn’t keep the universe and the United States straight. It just seemed so small minded, but then you were small, and I was sad, straddling my guilt with my ability and my dreams, knowing full well I would fail you.