Mom and I would share toast, shedding crumbs all over the bed while I asked her other questions, like if it was possible to move things with your eyes, what the word “fuck” meant, if angels existed or if she could tell me the story about when she and Dad got me from Nanchang.
‘A family as triangle. Drifting lines. This [mother- father-child] triangle will never be reassembled.’
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