“And in the window,” my mother told me, “The sign said, ‘WE SALE WATER.’ Really! And I said, ‘This is why she hates this town. Can’t spell a damn thing.'”
My mother never asks me why I don’t come home anymore. She understands. She knows how sad I get when I see the restaurant at which I am numero uno on the invisible blacklist. She knows how uncomfortable it feels when I walk into the bar and everyone turns to look at me. She knows I have no answer for my high school friends who demand to know when I’ll be back for good.
So I hide behind giant sunglasses or inside a wool coat with the collar turned up for two-to-three days when I finally break down and go back.
She’s right. None of them can spell a damn thing.