My mother embroidered my jeans, but my sweater came with the flower already on it. We found these antlers in the woods. The animal who made these is dead, my father says. They are heavy and feel like smooth rock. My father wants to sell them to someone who carves antlers. Maybe they’ll end up as a cigarette lighter case, or something else decorative. It’s a free lunch, says my father. This is the youngest picture of me online. I’ll always be here.