dogeeseseegod

I feel as though I have not introduced myself yet, that I have not, properly at least, introduced myself yet. My caregiver says that when I say something, then perhaps I should explain myself. I mean if what I say is not clear to the other person, then how do I actually know if something is clear to the other person?

 

I can see my mother in the slat on the back of the chair. I don’t mean on the seat of the chair, nor the lower slat of the two slats on the back of the chair, but I do mean the chair to the right. The one that sits next to the green wall. I guess that wall is green because they ran out of paint.  No one specifically told me that they ran out of the light red paint—not pink but more of a light red.

 

So, my writing teacher at school, Miss Meriweather, says that we should make sure to wrap up a certain topic before going on to another topic, so let me attempt to wrap up a few things.

 

First, the chair is made from very odd material like that fake wood paneling that one sees on mobile homes or on the sides of cars with the name, “Country Squire.”

 

Inside that fake wood grain, I see my mother’s face—my biological mother’s face—whom I was told died ten years before I was born. Just kidding. She died when I was two years old, not two months.

 

My caregiver and also the weatherman who comes to visit say that I have a special problem in learning, which—they both proclaim—people are embarrassed to talk about. Not to me, mind you, but to each other. To mention to themselves as they are walking down the street with their cat on a leash.