Self-portrait because I once saw a door and knew not to open. Because behind every door is a mouth, and the tongue, a road.

I think it was the first time it hit me that I was disposable, that we all were, that we players were on an assembly line of talent, and when we reached the end, it didn’t matter much whether we fell in the trash or not.

If the child is the father of the man, couldn’t the reverse also be true? That the man, too, becomes a child again, in the presence of his own child.

It was a favorite line of his. More than him saying it, I was frustrated by the expectation that a nine-year-old should know how to thaw and cook red meat. I was forever failing at things I was never taught to do.

So I’ve venerated the labor of my father’s hands, decided that that’s the real.

I was wailing then, screaming at her to get off me. And she said it again, “Pain’s not the end. You have to fight.”