She wears that same stone cold glare like a pitbull in a kill shelter as I did after I discovered sex too young with no one to tell me that my body was an hourglass and time was running out of how many boys could touch me in all the wrong places before the last grain of sand fell. My innocence wore thin years before hers, and now the hourglass is placed in between her eyes like a death threat. Soon she will have her hands on the wheel, seatbelt in place. Or maybe her knuckles will turn as white as the cross that hung around the priest's neck at our mother's funeral as she presses the gas harder, her body free from all restraints.
