At the sink just now. Humming ‘Nothing Compares to You’. It’s everyone’s favorite Sinead O’Connor song except mine. Prince wrote a pretty song for a pretty girl. And she made it her own because that voice, and that spirit. But her other songs–the ones she wrote–they are a whole world. I remember listening to Sinead when we were both young and trying to love and be loved and ending up sad. And angry. And confused and shortchanged. I remember emerging from childhood and wondering what the fuck. I remember sitting at a table frowning, and my father saying “You’re turning into an ugly person.” And my brother added, “It’s true.” I remember being perplexed as to how a mood could effect my attractiveness in that moment, and into the future, and whether being found attractive by my immediate relatives was even necessary or appropriate. But even my grandmother would say “Smile. You’re so much prettier when you smile.” I spilled a sticky little drop of black strap molasses onto my white porcelain sink. I was eating it straight off a spoon, because it’s good for me. I wiped the sink clean as if someone might see. But it’s just me here now. And I remembered being a kid, being a girl, thinking I might be enough. Tidying up the place. Waiting for my parents to come over. And see me. Trying. Doing something right. Being someone good. Someone OK. But they never will.