by Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri
The milkman was only on patrol to run away with mothers. He was lactose intolerant. A milkman ran off with his mother when he was five. He wanted her. He’d pictured locating her at random chance along the route, wondered how it’d feel to confront her. He wondered whether she’d recognize him.
He needed the wonderment of company in small-town motels, illusions of beauty. Hope. He didn’t know what it meant to love, to give up parts of yourself. He longed to hear mothers’ stories, although the thought frightened him, traversing the vast pink expanse of morning, with only the radio.