amanda stern

The halls are long and my mother’s room is dark and humid. There are photographs of my life with the Alcoholic stacked in piles on the floor. One is propped against a book and I pick it up, stare at the boy with the Jack rocks in his hand. He is wearing a suit that doesn’t fit. Dampness clings to his face like a miracle. Party guests blur in the background like they don’t count. A photograph captures nothing more than a dead moment.
—  from The Long Haul, by Amanda Stern