My name’s Atim. And for some reason not unknown to me i’m numb to all these end of the year hullabaloo. everyone this season is being worked into a frenzy buying mistletoe and stringing glowing bulbs in in every possible vantage point. In the homes. On the street. But i’m trapped. In-between the need for glee and the  reality of grief. Hopeful that time will do the latter great disservice. Because this shouldn’t continue for too long…

My name’s Atim. High School dropout. Male. I’m Atim because Mother named me before i was born and before she could open her eyes to see that i wasn’t female. She never got up from that bed alive. I was told. She left as i came. A life for a life. That’s what her smile says every time i wake to behold her in the wood-framed picture placed against a background of exfoliating wall paint. My Mona Lisa.