Horton can’t hear me. I’m on the dandelion he tramples while looking for his Whos.
Perhaps the rest of the herd can tell the calf is headed to its death.
What if I’d been less inhibited? What if I’d cried out, 'Jesus, what the hell is that?'
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.
