HOME IS WHERE THE BUGS ARE ! ᵖᵒᵉᵗʳʸ

inheritance

my dad's in the other room claiming his sliver of inheritance from my grandmother's ira, and it's a monday and it's cold and we're reading the books we read when were children, about bears and lions and princesses and vegetables. and i can't help but feel like i've been in this place before, with my head stuck in the sand while the world moves all around me.

if it wasn't november and if the world wasn't on fire and she was still here, i could squint and it could be the fourth of july. it could be the fourth of july, i feel so on fire.

if she was still here maybe i could forget the world and live with the sand in my mouth and hear her sing to me, out of tune and too shrill and too loud but too much like her to ever want it to end.

in the event that my dad dies the money goes to me, and i'd spend the money on something big, like an aboveground pool or a pet turtle or a scuba diving lesson. or maybe i wouldn't touch it, or maybe i'd invest in a mad scientist with a time machine who could take me back to the year 2003 so i could hold onto her for seventeen years all over again. so i could find out all the tricks to make myself more like her and less like myself. so i could spit the sand out and rinse my mouth with her cherry vodka and see the world through bead connected lenses.

in the event that i die the ira goes federal, and the government spends the $500 on cement to fill potholes in nebraska, or fix a water fountain at a public library in tucson.

in the event that i live forever, i invest the money and someday buy the moon and paint it plum purple.