The novelist Philip Roth said when a writer is born into a family, the family is ruined.
I thought this as I raced the shadow of a cloud on an empty road midafternoon.
By raced, I mean I attempted remaining within the shadow. Shaded. As in, my skin’s pale and melanoma is killing my mother.
The Texas sun is savage, especially to light-skinned Hispanics.
Years ago, I wrote a short story about an alcoholic mother. My mother read it.
“The words are beautiful, but it’s so sad,” she said.
I’m not a bad omen. But I’m warming up to wrecking ball.