my sunhat is crouched on the floor, iglooed around air, sheltering no wendybird, just coating nothing, tented to keep its own shape, ginger, tender, expectant.
it snatches freckles as they fall, like any mother would.
my father was a yardstick. any father is a yardstick.
at the end of time, when god is fully revealed, he will peer into each of our eyes and discern either love or hate.
