— for Wendy
Those winding roads where we stuck out our thumbs to any cars that came. Wyoming: miles of cowboys, mountains we’d never climb that seemed to love us anyway, looming, as they did, no matter where we stood. The little steak knives we put in our purses, thinking we’d use them if we had to: How would you like to be altered? we practiced saying and then cracked up, thirteen, immortal in purple halters on the gravel highway shoulder, stumbling in our too-high heels, making up our faces and our lives. I wish I could tell those girls how beautiful they are, but they can’t hear me. The sky’s so big above them, they can’t even see it.