I love to be in the sun when ribbons fall from my hair. And they cover bits and pieces of what I can see. I love to be tired and see through my flyaway hairs, bottles of light fed to my skin. And my skin is hot and I press my cold hands to my warm face, and I am lazy because her lack of care for the world seeps into me, and nothing really matters because I’m warm now. And I’m in the passenger seat of her bruised and battered black car, and the sun heats the torn-up seats. And I forget about my mother and the things she will ask of me, and I lay my head back and I close my eyes for a while and I can see the hot through my eyelids in polka dots of orange. I open my eyes every few moments real real lazily and I see again the sun peaking over stained rooftops and through palm trees. I hold her and the late afternoon sun dearly to me for how they let me forget everything just for a little while and cover me with a real soft blanket that gives me just a short little while to breathe.