Whenever I misbehaved, my mother would ask if I was raised in a barn.
“No,” I’d say. “But you’re too drunk to notice.”
“I’m out of beer,” she says, and she pulls a five from her purse. “I swear, if you spend this on candy or the arcade, I’ll kill you.”
Years later, she found Jesus. Right around when her liver gave out.
“The doctors say they can put just part of your liver in me,” she wrote. “It’ll grow back.”
I put the letter back in my pocket.
She died last night.
I ask Siri where’s the nearest arcade.