James “Ed” White

(1) Since the Warren Commission’s and FBI’s investigation into the possibility of a conspiracy was seriously flawed, their failure to develop evidence of a conspiracy could not be given independent weight.

(2) The Warren Commission was, in fact, incorrect in concluding that Oswald and Ruby had no significant associations, and therefore its finding of no conspiracy was not reliable.

(3) While it cannot be inferred from the significant associations of Oswald and Ruby that any of the major groups examined by the committee were involved in the assassination, a more limited conspiracy could not be ruled out.

(4) There was a high probability that a second gunman, in fact, fired at the President. At the same time, the committee candidly stated, in expressing it finding of conspiracy in the Kennedy assassination, that it was “unable to identify the other gunman or the extent of the conspiracy.

– The Congressional Committe on Assassinations JFK Assassination Report, 1976

I could not sleep that night. Wendy’s impending death and memories of my childhood churned in my head, stirred by the Sativa, and my aching body wanted to move and stretch rather than lie down, but I forced myself down, and eventually slid into something like a dream. Not a lucid dream, but awake enough to watch a turmoil of memories swirling around the backwards letter C scar on my scalp that is a part of my first memories as a four year old child in Louisiana’s foster system.

I woke up to the smell of unfiltered Camel cigarettes and PawPaw’s Old Spice aftershave. When I opened my eyes, the world was sideways, and PawPaw’s smiling and clean shaven face was looking down at me. The world turned right-side up as soon as I leaned up off the couch.

“Hey, d’er, Lil’ Buddy,” he said. “‘Bout time you woke up.”

I swung my legs over the edge and plopped down on the cracked and peeling vinyl flooring, and threw open my arms and stepped into PawPaw’s waiting hug. It must have been Saturday, because he was clean shaven and dressed in his tree-climbing shoes, thick leather boots that could hold his tree-climbing spikes, these strap on metal gadgets that looked similar to horse spurs black and white cowboys wore on the living room’s old rabbit eared television set across from my spot on the couch.

“Go on now,” PawPaw said. “Get in d’er and wash up before MawMaw’s up.”

I scuttled across the vinyl floor and into the hallway bathroom, the only one in PawPaw’s tiny two bedroom house off Hooper road. I peed and flushed and stood on the rough wooden step stool PawPaw had made so I could wash my hands in the sink. I hopped down and landed with both big feet on the bathroom floor, took off my sleeping t-shirt and put on the clothes PawPaw had laid out for me.

The bathroom always smelled like he did, Old Spice and Camels, but I knew today was Saturday because he had laid out clothes for me in the bathroom, draped on the side of the sink over a tiny corner of porcelin that was usually covered by a pile of hair spray and womens’s skin lotion products that overflowed into the sink. On those weekdays when the pile was all I could see of the sink, PawPaw was off early in the morning to his side gig as the custodian of Glen Oaks High School. It was only a half a cigarette’s drive away, but MawMaw said he had to get there before dawn because all those kids depended on him to have their bathrooms ready for learning. On those days, MawMaw laid out my clothes in the living room, beside my couch, because PawPaw was busy helping the kids at Glen Oaks. Linda – I think she was my sister – said he took extra care of the oak trees and that’s why everyone in Baton Rouge said Glen Oaks had the biggest and healthiest trees outside of LSU’s parade field. When PawPaw returned for dinner, he would smell something like Pine Sol but more pungent (it was probably extra strong to scrub out whatever those 300 kids did to the toilets at Glen Oaks), and of course he would still smell like Camels, too. On those evenings, his chin was black and grey 300 grit sandpaper; I never knew if he shaved on weekday mornings, but every Saturday and Sunday his face would be slick as a nonstick skillet, and he would smell like Old Spice after shave and a freshly lit cigarette.

I put on the freshly washed white t-shirt and blue jeans he had laid out before dawn, and flung open the bathroomdoor and almost ran into MawMaw in her shaggy off-white bathrobe and fuzzy light-blue slippers. She didn’t have her bright ruby red lipstick on yet.

MawMaw kneeled down to look me in the eyes and said:

“Gimme some shugga!”

I cringed and brought my arms up to my chest, ready to defend my face.

She inched closer and said again:

“Gimme some shugga!”

I giggled and brought my fists under my chin.

“I’m gonna steal me some shugga,” she said, inching closer and holding out her pinchers like a crawfish.

I was ready, but she was faster. She clamped my shoulders and transformed from a crawfish into a Kingfisher snapping a minnow from PawPaw’s pond, smacking her lips on my cheek before I could defend myself. I squealed in delight and got my hands up before she smacked a second time, and she machine gunned shugga across the backs of my hands and I squealed again.

“Shhh,” MawMaw whispered. “You gonna wake the baby.”

I shushed and lowered my hands, and she swooped in for some shugga on my other cheek and I squealed again before she scooted me down the hall so she could take her turn in the bathroom. MawMaw came from money; she was born Delores Shakelton (like the explorer and captain of The Endurance, who led 28 sailors to safety after their ship got crushed in the frozen Antartica), and was a part of the wealthy Baton Rouge Lemar Advertising family that’s now a publicly traded company and owns 80% of all roadside billboards in America. MawMaw grew up with all the bathrooms a family could dream of, and never waited in line to put on her lipstick. I never learned how she met and married PawPaw.

I didn’t rush all the way to the kitchen; I stood by the mirror that filled the hallway opposite the bathroom, the one Linda and MawMaw would use to put on their makeup or check their clothes so that everyone else could use the bathroom. There was no residual shugga – that wouldn’t happen until after she put on her lipstick – but I wasn’t looking for that; I was seeing how big I had grown. A thick line of red lipstick the color of Dorthy’s ruby slippers from The Wizzard of Oz marked where the top of my head was a few days ago. I tried to stand in the same spot, was I wasn’t exactly sure. Like magic, when I moved an inch forward I seemed to grow, and when I moved a step back I seemed to shrink. I looked down at my Saturday shoes, and tried to line up my toes on the same peeling square of cream colored vinyl with its sprinkling of dark grey melted bumps from dropped cigarettes.

They were my only shoes, but because PawPaw wore different shoes for different days I called them my Saturday shoes. He had a lot of side gigs. Craig – Linda’s boyfriend and the baby’s daddy – said PawPaw was the most famous tree surgeon in all of southern Louisiana. Plantation homes as far away as Saint Francisville with names like Oak Alley and The Oaks called him every year to trim their trees and get rid of bugs attacking the insides, and even Houma House along the River Road would call PawPaw – they could afford anyone they wanted, and they wanted PawPaw. Saturdays were his day to be a tree surgeon.

I hadn’t grown, but I kept my toes on the line and leaned forward to make the mirror magic happen. I felt I was bigger, and that was good enough. I turned and scuttled over to PawPaw to help him make breakfast. I stood up on the kitchen stool he had made for me, and asked if we were going to climb trees today.

“Nope. Today is your day wit’ Wendy and Debbie,” he said. I had forgotten. A month is a long time for a four year old.

PawPaw mixed some milk and eggs in a bowl, poured in the Bisquick, and put a scoop of Crisco in the frying pan. MawMaw came up, still in her bathrobe and without that Wizard of Oz lipstick, and gave PawPaw some shugga and poured herself a cup of coffee from the big pot he had made. I heard someone in the bathroom, either Linda or Craig, so I knew we had to hurry and eat while there was still space in the kitchen.

PawPaw moved enough of his stained tools against my wooden train set on the kitchen table, and served me a plate of pancakes. I drowned them in Aunt Jamima syrup and began to wolf them down. MawMaw told me to slow down – she always did – and reminded me that she’d have chocolate chip cookies ready for when I got home, so I could slow down eating because there’d always be more. Linda and Craig came out, and I put my plate lined with crumbs and syrup on the kitchen counter and scooted to the bathroom and brushed my teeth and got ready to spend the day with Wendy and Debbie.

They showed up in Wendy’s faded yellow and dented Datsun hatchback soon after. PawPaw was already outside in the carport, beside a big square stack of Yellow Pages phone books. The Datsuns tires crunched on the gravel and Wendy came to a stop behind PawPaw’s old rusted Ford F150 that we used to haul broken and cut-down branches back home to burn. Debbie hopped out and squatted down and I ran over and leaped into her waiting arms. Wendy stood on her side and asked if I was ready for our day. I said of course! I always had fun with Wendy and Debbie; not as much fun as climbing trees with PawPaw, but Wendy and Debbie would take me to get a slushie at the 7-11 and we’d toss a Frisbee at the park after dropping off Yellow Pages.

PawPaw got busy loading the Datsun with Debbie’s help. Wendy kneeled by me and told me I was getting bigger. I was, I said. But not this week. I told her about the mirror and MawMaw’s lipstick, and how if you leaned in you looked like you grew but you really hadn’t.

The Datsun sagged with the weight of all the Yellow Pages, but PawPaw and Debbie seemed satisfied. They all stood back and smoked cigarettes and admired the work. PawPaw had his unfiltered camels; I don’t remember what Wendy and Debbie smoked, but they were all white and had filters.

For one of his side gigs, PawPaw ran all of the Kelly’s Girls twice a year, finding them a car and letting them deliver phone books in spring and Christmas catalogs in fall. He had fixed up the Datsun for Wendy, and she said Debbie came along to help us do the work.

We loaded up and I had to squeeze in the back seat atop a stack of Yellow Pages, at least until we delivered those first, Debbie said. PawPaw said goodbye, and MawMaw waived from her perch inside the open carport kitchen door. Wendy cranked on the Datsun and put it in gear and lurched backwards, crunching the gravel and almost stalling. A few more tries and we peeled out onto the blacktop of Hooper road, and were soon zooming along the wooded road with the windows down and the smell of springtime jasmine and azeleas whipping in and out of the window. We stopped at the red light by my favorite tree and the convenient store where PawPaw bought cigarettes, milk, and those tubes of chocolate chip cookie. We turned towards the airport, and soon were crawling up the I-110 onramp and headed towards Baton Rouge and the new neighborhoods where people lived next door to each other.\

Wendy was a nervous driver. She held the wheel with both hands and only glanced away from the road to check if part of the Datsun was falling off. A squeak was coming from the dashboard, as if a rusted bolt was being slowly unscrewed. She struck the dashboard with the palm of her hand. It sounded like someone slapping a kid’s wrist to keep their hand away from something sharp. The squeak responded by getting louder, and she hit harder, as if slapping a face in anger. The screw screeched in reply, and Wendy’s closed fist thumped down on it three times in rapid succession, and she shouted: “Stop it! Stop it!”

“Whoa, Wendy,” Debbie’s calm voice said as she rested her chubby hand on Wendy’s slim and athletic forearm. Wendy was always active, with a wall full of swimming ribbons hanging on Uncle Bob’s office wall and a Junior Miss Sherwood Forest Country Club golf trophy to prove it. Debbie was spherical and mostly sedentary, except when tossing a Frisbee to me.

“Calm down,” Debbie said. “It’ll be fine.”

“Here,” she said, holding up a thin and perfectly hand-rolled joint.

“Hold on,” she said, and put the joint in her mouth and produced a blue Bic lighter out of nowhere, like a magician producing a coin or deck of cards to set the stage for what would happen next. Debbie cupped the end of the joint and blocked the wind whipping around us and magically lit the joint with our windows down. She took just enough of a hit to keep the tip lit, then handed it to Wendy before Wendy could react to the still screeching screw trying to get out of the Datsun’s dashboard.

Wendy inhaled deeply and passed back to Debbie, then clutched the steering wheel again and exhaled. Blue-white smoke whirled around the eddies and wafted into my face, smelling something like a skunk that was run over on Hopper road near PawPaw’s house. Debbie took a deep drag and passed it back. They continued sharing the joint like tossing a Frisbee, and the magic worked: none of us noticed the squeaking screw any more.

A few hours latter, Debbie and I were pooped from running Yellow Pages to each door as Wendy lurched along beside us, and we zoomed up the onramp to head towards a park and buy some slushies. I was in my spacious back seat by then, and Debbie reached around and pulled off my nose and held it in her fist; I giggled like she was giving me shugga, but I knew how she did that and I showed her by pulling off hers and poking my thumb through my fingers, like she had taught me.

“You’re so smart,” she told me.

“How about this…” she said, and she grasped her forefinger with the tip poking out of her fist and yanked it off; I gasped in shock! Without a doubt, there was a little nub where her finger used to be, and the tip was in her other hand about a foot away.

Debbie spent the a few minutes showing me how to do that; it was just like pulling off a nose (you poked your thumb between the fingers of your fist), but the trick was lining it up against your bent forefinger. I sat back in the seat yanking my finger off. Debbie took that time to put her Frisbee on her lap like a shallow bowl, zip open her blue coin purse with the little pink flowers hand-sewn all over it, and pull out some rolling papers and a plastic lunch baggie with a bit of Mary Jane inside. As deftly as a magician makes a wand appear, she quickly had a thin joint rolled and licked it and reached for her lighter. It wouldn’t light, so she and Wendy rolled up the windows and Debbie lit it, took a deep drag, handed it to Wendy, and cracked her window to exhale out the top. Wendy took a drag and passed it back to Debbie and cracked her window, too. The pungent smoke wafted from the windows to my back seat and for some reason I couldn’t focus on taking my finger tip on and off.

Almost a full joint later, we pulled into the 7-11 on Goodwood Buelevard to get slushies; I always got Cherry (the color of MawMaw’s lipstick), Wendy always got a brown Coke, and Debbie always got the bright blue that I didn’t know what flavor it was, but that made Debbie’s tongue look like a Smurf when she stuck it out at me. A block away was a small park tucked in a dense forest of oak and pine trees and bursting with azalea blooms. Wendy said they liked living under pine trees, something about liking acidic soil, which I dind’t understand but knew enough to know azeleas bloom best under pine trees; PawPaw showed me that when we were working on weekends I wasn’t with Debbie and Wendy.

Round and round I spun, the rusted wobbly merry go round squeaking, and Debbie laughing with me and sticking out her bright blue tongue every time I sped by. Wendy was squeaking on her rusted chain link swing, going higher and higher with each kick of her feet, and were having so much fun we didn’t toss the Frisbee. Soon Debbie, who was always easily winded, took a break and her and Wendy smoked cigarettes while Wendy pushed me gently in the swing that was closer to the ground than hers had been. I can’t remember what we did with the slushies, but I’m sure there was a trash can we used; Debbie and Wendy were as strict on throwing things in the trash as MawMaw was on me slowing down my eating.

Soon we were going down Goodwood Buelevard again, to a house bigger than PawPaws I knew well and couldn’t wait to see, because Brian the one armed drug dealer would be there with his big motorcycle that he let me ride. And I was right! We pulled in and he was under the shade of the big stately oak tree in front of his house, working on a system of pulleys he said would let him ride again one day. Cathy, Debbie’s sister, was beside him trying to help, and a porch full of their friends from Glen Oaks were relaxing and smoking joints and cigarettes with bottles of beer spread around the old warped wood. Cathy went with Debbie and Wendy to the porch, and Brian heaved me up with his right arm and swung me around and plopped me atop his bike. He showed me the levers, and let me ride; I made the sound “thbbb, thbbb” to make it go, just like that mouse in The Mouse and The Motorcycle that Debbie had read to me when I asked if I could ride a motorcycle like Brian.

He showed me to how to use the cables he was adding, saying that soon when I pulled this one (he pointed to the one by my right hand) it would pull the lever on this side (he pointed to the clutch), and he could ride again. I sat there moving cables and must have gotten excited by seeing the future of how that could work, because Brian said I was right and a smart kid.

“Hey Jason,” he said.

Brian was the only person other than Debbie and Wendy who called me by my name when I was out with them; that must be why I remember him so well, his scrubby stubble and fluffy back hair that was almost like an afro but wasn’t, and his tanned skin from lots of time in the sun but not as tan and wrinkled as PawPaw’s, but I can’t see the other people on the porch in my mind’s eye. And of course there was the fact he only had one arm; no one else I knew had only one arm.

“I got something for you,” he said, and used his hand to reach around his neck and slip off a thin silver chain that I would later learn was an army dog-tag chain, but with a 1972 Kennedy half dollar dangling from it. He put it in my hand and said: “That’s the year you were born, 1972.”

I took his word on that.

“Here,” he said, picking it off my hand and taking it to his mouth to pop open the clip. He slid the half back into my palm and bunched up the chain and pointed to the square hole in Kennedy’s forehead.

“That’s a square hole,” he said, as if that were something special.

“How’d it get there?” he asked.

I said someone put it there. He said yes, but asked how. I said with a drill (PawPaw had drill bits all over the kitchen table and a corded Sears Craftsman drill in the carport, so I knew what a drill was and what it did).

“But a drill is round; this hole is square. Can you figure that out?”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know holes shouldn’t be square, but I held it and thought about it real hard, anyway.

“Tell me when you do,” Brian said. “Keep it until then. And see if you can learn to do this with it…”

He picked up the half and rolled it across his knuckles, catching it with his thumb and bringing it under his hand to start again; and again and again. It was like watching a stinging caterpillar wiggle around thin tree branches at the tips of oak trees.

Brian held the half still and at my eye level, and with a subtle snap of his fingers it vanished! He showed his hand front and back and jerked his hand and the half appeared back between his thumb and first two fingers in front of my eyes with Kennedy and 1972 in perfect view.

I asked him to show me how to do that, and he rolled the caterpillar again and said he would next time if I practiced that and thought about the square hole. I said I would, and took it from him and tried to roll it, but it was so big that it covered three of my fingers at once. Brian chuckled and said maybe a quarter would be easier, and that I could wear the half as a necklace and try it when I got bigger. He threaded the dog-tag chain through the square hold and fidgeted wtih the clip with his thumb and fingers until it locked, held it on his spread open hand – which was almost as big as my head – and draped the necklace around my neck. I held it and stared at the face and my birthdate and wondered what was special about a round hole.

Wendy called that we had to go, and Brian swooped me up and over the bike and back on the ground. Cathy joined me in the other back seat, and Wendy said we were dropping her and Debbie off before heading back to Mr. White’s, which is what everyone called PawPaw: Mr. White. He had been the custodian when they were all students there, and everyone called him Mr. White but knew who I was talking about when I called him PawPaw.

A full joint later, we were driving along Florida Buelevard across from what I know know was Belaire High School’s subdivision, and we turned right into the parking lot by the smoking oily sky above the Chinese all-you-can-eat buffet. We passed the two massive dented blue dumpsters with grey clouds of swarming buzzing flies hovering over them, and into the parking lot of Debbie and Cathy’s mom’s brick apartment complex, where they lived with their brother – who was the exact image of Brian, but with two arms – and their fluffy haired Cajun mother who screeched when she talked and who Wendy tried to avoid because she was so loud. Usually, I’d agree that it was too loud, but I was hoping we’d go inside because there were always boxes of the funny named Little Debbie snack cakes that Debbie liked to point out, big one pound bags of Raisenettes, lots of stuffed chocolate donuts with the pirate on the packagers, and a bowl of fortune cookies that were usually stale but still sweet and fun to eat if only for the tiny pieces of paper inside that Debbie would read to me (they all said I was smart and handsome, or strong and brave).

Wendy said we had to go, that we were already late to get to Mr. White’s. I sat in the front and waved goodbye and played with my new Kennedy half dollar necklace while Wendy sped up Florida Buelvard, looking for a road to the interstate. I got tired quickly – probably from all the weed that day – and dozed off and don’t remember how we got back on I-110. But I remember being woke up on Plank Road, close enough to the airport to see planes landing and just around the corner from a strip mall of pawn shops, payday loans, and Tony’s Seafood, which had a bubbling water tank bigger than my living room and full of live catfish that they’d cut and fry for you. There were always a lot of policemen near there, and one was leaned over and peering in Wendy’s window and she was shaking me to wake me up.

“I was in a hurry, officer,” Wendy said, shaking my shoulder. “My little brother is sick.”

Flashes of red and white bounced off the Datusun’s rear-view mirror and hit the side of Wendy’s face and dazzled my half-awake eyes. Though I can’t be sure, I’d bet they were bloodshot from all the second hand weed I had inhaled that day. I must have looked sick. I stared at the officer, and must have liked what I saw because I smiled.

The officer glanced at his hand, which had Wendy’s driver’s license in it, and looked at me and smiled back and said: “Howdy, sir. What’s your name?”

“Jason Pah’tan” I said, pronouncing it like PawPaw did. Though he was from somewhere in the pine forests of Woodville Mississippi, near where Big Daddy was born, his accent was more like the southern Louisiana French Cajuns who pronounced “i” as “a,” and most people I remember back then would laugh when he pronounced my last name, not because he pronounced it differently, but because of a famous and funny plumber’s commercial on local television, Patin’s Plumbing, which showed a man recently home from a long day at work and covered in dirty water from trying to fix his own toilet, with Patin the Plumber stepping in to say, “Shoulda called Pah’tan!” It was PawPaw’s accent that said “d’is and d’at” instead of this and that, like how the New Orleans A’ints fans cheered: “Who d’at? Who d’at? Who d’at talkin’ ’bout beatin’ d’em Saints? Who d’at?” My daddy and Big Daddy pronounced their names like the big-bosoomed country singer Dolly Parton, but I was Jason Pah’tan.

The officer glanced back down at Wendy’s driver’s license and then back at me and asked: “You okay, Mr. Pah’tan?”

I nodded and said I was doin’ fine.

But I must have looked less than fine, groggy and with bloodshot eyes and a head that wouldn’t stay upright, because the officer handed Wendy her license and said, “All right, Miss Pah’tan. Get him home soon and tell your parents to look at him; but please slow down so you get there safely.”

He squatted down to look into my eyes, not down at an angle, and I’ll never forget how that made me feel: like an equal. He said, “You feel better now, Mr. Pah’tan. Keep an eye on the road for your sister, and get her home safely.”

I nodded as vigorously as my groggy mind would allow, and said, “Yes, s’uh. I will.”

He stood up and his face vanished from sight, leaving me staring at a tool belt with a flashlight bigger than my forearm and a big steel Smith and Wesson .357 revolver like the one Big Daddy kept hidden on the back of his belt. The officer’s hand tapped Wendy’s open window twice and he stepped back a step towards traffic, as if to protect the Datsun and everyone inside from cars flying by Plank road in a hurry to pawn something or get some catfish. Wendy thanked him, and we pulled out slowly an smoothly, Wendy probably having learned how to drive a stick shift after a long day of delivering Yellow Pages door to door.

As we drove away, I peered back through the hatchback window and into the rotating red and blue lights, and watched the officer step back into his police car and fumble with his hands; the lights went off, and he pulled up a CB mouthpiece like the Teamster truckers used to talk to each other and said something into it. The car grew smaller and I couldn’t see him any more, then the lights came back on and the car u-turned so quickly I saw a wave of gravel shoot up behind him and dance across the asphalt as he sped away to help someone else.

Wendy gripped the steering wheel with both hands; her forearms were shaking and her knuckles were white.

“Don’t tell Mr. White what happened.” she said, glancing at me then whipping her gaze back to the road in front of us.

“He won’t want to know we got stopped by a cop,” she said. “Or saw Brian.”

She looked at me and smiled a smile only Wendy could smile, one that wanted both of us to be happy yet was full of fear and sadness. I reached out and touched her arm like Debbie had, and though nothing of her smile changed physically, it felt better to me and I said okay. She beamed at that, and turned her attention back to the road.

We got home safely. The Datsun came to a stop in the gravel driveway behind an empty carport, and MawMaw opened the door beside PawPaw’s cricket cage, and stood framed by white paint with her bright ruby read lipstick as bright as the flashing police car lights had been and her hair done up in a beehive standing improbably tall atop her head and held in place by copious amounts of hairspray from those cans piled in the bathroom. I swung open the Datsun’s door and leaped out and landed on the gravel with a satisfying crunch. I could hear PawPaw’s hundreds of crickets welcoming me home with a chorus of chirps, and I could almost smell MawMaw’s hairspray.

She squatted down and stuck out her arms, and when I got close enough to her aura of hairspray she said: “Gimme some shugga!”

I lept into her arms and tried to bury myself in her blouse to protect my face, but I was no match for her machine gun fire lips, and soon I was covered in shugga.

“Get inside and wash up before you have cookies,” she said. I could smell the freshly baked chocolate chips becoming me from the kitchen, overriding MawMaw’s hairspray. The smell of cookies and the chirping of crickets told me I was home.

“Say goodbye to Wendy first,” MawMaw said as she stood up.

I turned and waved to Wendy, who was standing beside her open car door and had that sad smile on again. She waved back, and I disappeared and ran to the hallway and stopped in front of the hallway mirror just long enough to glance at my face and smear a few shugga scars across my cheek in a fruitless effort to wipe them off. Inside the bathroom, I stood on the stool PawPaw made for me and scrubbed and scrubbed and came out clean. I flew back to the kitchen table, where PawPaw’s tools had been pushed aside to make room for a plate of maybe five or six cookies and a glass of whole milk were waiting.

I began to devour the cookies, and MawMaw reminded me to slow down. I don’t know what it was about returning from a day at Brian the one armed drug dealer’s house, but I couldn’t get enough food down to my belly fast enough. It took so much effort to slow down and eat my cookies that I didn’t think about Wendy or wonder if she got home safely.

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