At the Geriatrician’s
My mother sits next to me, her fake fur Borganzia coat buttoned up, her black velvet cloche pulled low on her forehead. It’s August. She’s penciled the beauty spot onto her right cheek and wears her designer eyeglasses with the rhinestone B for Beatrice winking on the lower right lens. She smells like Evening in Paris with an underwaft of… Read more →