The earliest memory I have is of my father teaching me to draw an elephant out of black ink on thick honey-washed watercolor paper.
Later, as an adult, I learned that he only knew how to draw this one animal, and I only kept drawing it because I thought it was his favorite. I suspect he was short on ideas for how else to bond, so he kept up with the elephant theme and brought home from the library “Babar the Elephant”. I have so much childhood nostalgia of sitting, reading, and writing with my dad, but I fucking hated Babar from the moment we opened it, and that was the end of elephant stuff.
“What’re you sightseeing, camel-jockey?”
I was playing with my infant outside of our rental home. We’d been living there for about two weeks. The house backs right up to the train tracks, and my silent shock was violated by a series of three drawn out train whistles. I looked over and saw a disgusting slop of a human, tits out to here, breathing hard in my direction. “We’re the new neighbors. You met my husband a little while ago.”