Goblin Fruit by Erin Burr6/27/2023 ![]() ![]() Mom’s parents were probably alive but didn’t want to be bothered with raising her. His parents had been killed in a car accident, and his only other relative was a grandmother who had dementia and was living in a home herself. Overcrowded, under-managed, drab, and lonely, to Dad it was a home in nothing but name. My mom and dad, Sara and Frank, met when they were twelve years old when they lived together in a group home. I drew her the way Dad said she had looked that one night, sixteen years ago, her face peaceful in sleep, her shining, golden hair forming a halo around her on the pillow. It didn’t look very good on the male patients on women it was awful. Her hair was cut that way because it was easy to maintain and keep clean, but it wasn’t attractive. Looking down at my sketch, I drew in her hair, the long, flowing tresses of my imagination, not the short, drab, buzz cut she wore now. MY BREAKFAST-WATERMELON chunks, apple slices, green grapes, blueberries, and a dollop of bright orange yogurt-sat forgotten beside my sketchbook as I watched my mother eat. ![]()
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