Tucson in June. My birthday month. It's hot out. Like—sweat seeps under your boobs before you step two feet outside the door kind of hot.
I'm heading for the mail—Amazon packages, always too much plastic. Nothing exciting. Wiper blades, dish soap, shaving razor refills. My legs haven't seen a blade in longer than I'd like to admit.
There's an envelop from my mom. What's this?
Out fall three locket necklaces, baby pictures of my brother and me. They're heavy and feel like magic.
I shake out a handful of high school senior glam photos. Wow, was I hot back then! Damn. No wonder they wanted me in the Air Force Academy.
And then, I find the book, sewing machine–bound and glued by hand. My first foray into indie publishing, written and illustrated by me, with my old name, back in first grade. Back when I still hated reading because words were so hard. Words are still hard. But how I loved stories. And still do.