They Forgot to Invite Me to Christmas—So I Bought a Mountain. When They Came to Take It, the Deputy Was Already Waiting.

roll certificates spanning six consecutive years, the acceptance letter from the regional literary journal that published my first poem when I was sixteen—all filed away where they wouldn’t clash with the carefully curated aesthetic.

The erasure was a slow build, a habit that calcified into tradition over the years. It was most acute around Christmas,continue reading …