She made her own clothes.

She made her own clothes and wore plastic forks in her hair. She reminded me of my grandmother’s cat. Not the imaginary one, the one that got sucked up in that tornado in ’62. Her apartment always smelled like overripe oranges, and she’d recite that Carrousel Tune poem by Tennessee Williams whenever we played Canasta. Last summer, she wouldn’t stop talking about how she tragically lost her fairy wings in a freak escalator accident at the Southdale Center in Edina, Minnesota. I decided to make her a pair with wire hangers, duct tape and wax paper. I gave them to her on her birthday. She stopped telling that story after that. But that’s not why I did it. I did it because I was in love with her.

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