I blush when she says I’m gay.

And she freezes because that’s not the routine of the joke.

There’s blood in my cheeks and my hands and my vision and I laugh.

And she asks me again—

not kidding.

And I see it all.

God’s face staring down after years in a Baptist church. Mom saying she never took us to the services enough. Mammaw telling me she’d have a heart attack, Grandma mentioning that poor waiter.

Words are power; but feelings are just unfinished thoughts. I shouldn’t make concrete out of questions, so I laugh again.

The laugh is not the 17 year old laugh she knows.

She knows.