Kids will be kids and boys will be boys. We’re not who we are and we don’t share toys. Most days I can think of yet better things to paint and to trace than my face, but that acrylic blue, they tell me I’ll rue the day I let it highlight my fingerprints so well. And so by fall, I am scrubbing my hand off the bedroom wall. There are spikes inside my unpeeled grapes, in my father’s wine and mother explains about seeds and vines but I forget, ask, say it again, please, she says write it down instead and I tried but I can never find a pen.