My friend lives with his mother in a suburban warehouse somewhere in Ohio or Tennessee. They have separate beds positioned close to each other. I assume their relationship is closer than any other mother and son in the world. I smell the sweetness of this, my heart burns for my own mother. There are several artist friends who begin to trickle in and out. We talk about things made and things to make. Laughter doesn't belong in the conversation. Someone says Go! I begin to run down a hall, seeing myself from behind, I notice my gate, the slight askew position of my hips as I run with one foot in front of the other. Hips even out. I run faster and am surprised how normal I look from behind.