In her confusion, my mother doesn’t always remember who’s alive or dead.
I face the same old hyena in my mind: you’re weak, empty, delusional, small in heart.
The night before Leonard Nimoy died, I happened to be looking over images of Spock.
By the time the last clip of hair fluttered to the floor, he was a teenager.
She had no life but for us, the boys. She made that abundantly clear.
