I try not to cry so often. I do get angry because when everyone else is out freezing their butts on icy metal bleachers at the football game, I am here scrubbing your blue wax mess off the wall. I am washing food out of your hair while my peers go to parties. I imagine their sleek, pressed ponytails and laid edges and I cannot remember the last time I did my hair instead of yours. I have more gray hairs than I have friends. I cook dinner that you will not eat because I forgot you don’t eat anything red...
This Is a Story About Washing Your Hands
