My Last Day at Holy Cross

By Celeste Doaks Outside the school they argued as the sun danced on black asphalt. Momma’s nostrils flared as she spoke to the nun in short staccato phrases. But she’s not stupid. Sometimes she gets flustered. At age six, flustered didn’t compute but I knew my troubled tongue was the problem. When reading those Nan and Ted sentences stuck in my mouth like grains of salt, clogged in a shaker that fell out in clumps, or sometimes not at all. But... Read More