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She would loose herself in the game and dunk ball after ball into the hoop. Her tongue lolled daughter incest out of her mouth, wagging back and forth in concentration, as she hurled her tiny self at the basket. "Let's go shopping," I would say to her after she scored her 42nd point, to which she would roll her eyes and mutter something about my father's side of the family. My mother rarely troubled herself with housework. Our hovel was strewn with half-bagged Avon orders, piles of books, perfume decanters in the daughter incest shape of Dutch maidens, unwashed dishes, and dead daughter incest houseplants. My mother did not intentionally set out to create an ambiance that only a full-scale tornado could reproduce; it's just that she was easily distracted. She would drop her house chores in favor of a good tennis match, reminding me that "the dishes will always be there, but the opportunity for a good game of tennis will not." She would arrive home from the match to start up again with the vacuuming; pulling the furniture to the center of the room to allow for a really thorough cleaning, when her eyes would light upon a half-finished novel.
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