My mother speaks for me. I nod along as she recounts the twisted history of my illness, too weak to correct her when she trips over a detail.
Founded in 1977 at Columbia University's School of the Arts
My mother speaks for me. I nod along as she recounts the twisted history of my illness, too weak to correct her when she trips over a detail.
She had been about five years old when Mom showed her the bag.
We cremated my mother at a soulless funeral home in Baltimore near the highway.
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