when god closes a door, he opens a window, ma used to say. it was really me, chubby, scared hands pushing them closed, slamming. shuddering hinges, cracks spiderwebbing to the ceiling. not to protect; she saw growing from the seed she planted--- born bad, fruit bruised on the branch.  instead of first words and steps, it was first irrationalities, the turn of the cycle that would consume us both. but she couldn’t throw me out. i may be the brown spot on the peach, but i’m still sweet. my juice will run down your chin when you bite into me. i will linger, sticky between your fingers. you could throw out the pit. but she planted me, and a crooked tree grew.