landing

It's complicated, like origami,
the folds in our relationship.
My mother is talking about me, but really, she is talking
about herself. Yet her wounds are my wounds;
at least, something in me hurts.

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH LETTER
OF THE ALPHABET

A daughter’s struggle to face the Medusa of generational trauma without turning to stone—an intimate portrait of the chaos and confusion of a mother's mental illness—and a deep meditation on storytelling itself, written in the form of a glossary.

Deceptively simple fragments add up to more than the sum of their parts. . . . Astonishing and inventive. [Adrian's] glossary is strangely gripping, with a momentum pulling the reader in and through. The result is whimsical, even darkly funny at times, brimming with compassion, terribly sad and deeply loving. Memoir readers should not miss this singular offering.Shelf Awareness