MIR Editor

I have my father’s eyes. They stare back at me in the mirror. “You’ll never make the baseball team,” they are saying. Rows of boys in letterman sweaters—a snapshot of the American Dream. “God bless President Kennedy,” they are saying. They are not me.

Just as she will allow none but she to cut the children’s hair and nails, so she will allow none but she to tend to her plants. Eight and possibly nine baby seedlings poke their small heads from the soil of the chilli plants container and she is delighted.