Lime in my glass, in my summer sweater, I examine the masonry, feeling slobber on my knuckle. The stones are green and blue and purple, like I was once, when I woke to the alarm of a hammer. There is nothing on my hand but the leftover of my bath salts, one of the many scents I get for Christmas from my mother. I picture hands coming, the shake of the wrist, my husband’s face once kind, with cloudy eyes and hints of eucalyptus. He’d never met my father, but with that same fierce look, they could have been one.
By Kim Chinquee.