age 24
Sat at your dying grandmother’s bedside, you
paint her nails. A soft mauve, grey-tinged,
almost like her skin now collapsing into her
chest, like a slow-rotting plum, just two
weeks after Mother’s Day, when she didn’t
answer your call. You had never imagined
this, kissing the mole of her left hand just
at the base of her thumb. You have one in
the same spot, so you kiss this, too, mouth
drifting back and forth, trying to take some
of her back home with you. You are grateful
your cousins enter, pulling your father’s
eyes away from your profile. He can’t seem
to stop saying, You’re grown now. One of
them is expecting a baby (his third) and
isn’t sure what he wants it to be. A girl,
your father says. You know boys, you’ll
teach ‘em stuff about girls and shit. But
girls, oh, you dress ‘em up. They look so
sweet. Lil dolls. Nothing like it. There it
is. That needle threatening to pierce the
top of your skull. New knowledge and no
memory. At the funeral two weeks later, his
eyes are a desert island. You leave dinner
early to catch the train home. In the
parking lot, he hugs you, says Pretty girl.
All grown up. When you’re ready, call me.
His new family moves six weeks later.
Just 45 minutes south of you.