Migraines run in my family. Growing up, they were the only ailment that ever forced my mother out of commission. She’d power through a stomach bug or cold, but the migraine’s white, popping focal auras and drilling pain forced her to retreat to her bedroom. Door shut. Lights off. My brother and I knew to leave her alone. That if we played with my toy horses down the hall, we had to run the farm silently.
“Grief Bacon: Pressuring Myself” at Modern Loss
Published in Recent Writing