Sometimes I think it hurts to remind you that it happened

My mother’s father was a short, stubborn Scotsman with eyes so icy-blue they’d make you think of glaciers, or perhaps maybe the moon. His name was James. To most, he was Jimmy. To me, he was Papa.

Whenever I reflect on my childhood–long, harrowing years of growing up in chaos, the daughter of two addicts–Papa is the only constant I can remember. He picked me up from school when my parents were late. … Read the rest