The Business of Remembering
Cynthia remembered standing in the kitchen braiding pigtails when Grandma’s phone rang. She remembered freckles across her mom’s nose. She imagined 747s shattering over the Atlantic, and pictured freckles dissolving into bubbles and plane fragments. Mothers existed in photos. On television children deserved hugs. That wasn’t real life.
She might’ve steadied if her father refused the drink. Years broke him. Empty bottles consumed counter tops. He sent the bullet from temple to temple. No one adopts eight year olds.