Ghost Story

It rained the day Jimmy died.

Rained the day they put him in the ground. By then, it wasn’t unusual—it had rained every day for three weeks. The funeral guests' feet sank into the mud and came up heavy. They trudged to the graveside and back to their cars. His Army buddies—the two still alive—were taken back to the swamps. Marching in monsoon season was the same. Mississippi had become Vietnam by all the goddamn rain.

“A ghost killed Daddy!” his daughter wailed at the funeral, rain pouring down. The Army men said nothing, but one of them put a solid hand on her shoulder—a gesture that seemed to silence her. Men who’ve seen combat have that effect. One calm, heavy hand could hold down a grieving woman. No one believed her. But she was right. Jimmy had been killed by a ghost.

The change was slow. Like watching a child’s hair grow between cuts—subtle until suddenly it’s gone. After three years in the new house, it became clear: he’d been consumed by the ghost of the man who lived there before.

It was her fault. She had suggested the move. A house big enough to share—until she married. A house small enough for him alone after that. But the husband never came. And now, after the funeral, she would return to that haunted house alone. The opposite of her plan.

June had said something was off. She told him to call the VA. First gently, then firmly. She watched for signs he was still there—flashes of anger or annoyance—but all she saw was the mower catalog open on the table.

“Daddy, you never cared about the yard before. What’s going on?”

She was right. At the old place, he didn’t notice water pooling in the yard until it was five inches deep, ten feet long, and ducks had started nesting. He didn’t learn a neighbor’s name until one crashed her Jeep into his fence. Her name was on the insurance paperwork.

But this yard? These neighbors? Different. From the start.

Jimmy insisted they unpack the mower first. A Snapper Rear Engine Rider—like the one from Forrest Gump.

“Daddy,” June said, exasperated. “Let the movers finish. You can mow tomorrow.”

“It needs mowing now,” he said.

One of the movers grinned. “Sometimes a man just has to mow.”

The lawn was uneven—divots, holes, crabgrass. He mowed in lines first. Then diagonals. Next time, maybe circles.

Each day brought a new enemy: gophers. Mushrooms. Creeping kudzu. He studied them like a soldier studies terrain. Filled holes. Pulled vines. Measured soil acidity. Spearmint gum. Cayenne pepper. Garden lime. He borrowed library books. Bought traps. Bought poison. He’d rent a tiller. Burn the soil if needed. He’d burned things before.

The answers came in the mail. Always addressed to the previous homeowner: Mr. Joshua Anderson. Flyers for landscapers. Coupons for mulch. Brochures for zero-turn mowers. Equipment rentals. Soon, Jimmy had two mowers and a garden shop account. He hated the lawn. But once it was finished, he’d be done. Unless something else came up.

As he worked, the neighbors emerged. First a few, then more. Joggers. Dog walkers. Retirees. Housewives. Bikers. Moms with baby buggies. Like ants stirred from a nest. Smiles and waves. Pleasant voices.

“Nice lawn,” said a younger man in a Navy cap. “You a vet? You carry yourself that way.”

Jimmy waved him off. “Yeah. Summer camp changed my fucking life.”

The kid laughed. “I hear that, man. I was in the Navy myself. I get it, dude.”

He didn’t. Jimmy had met men like him before. Men who thought turning wrenches on a ship was the same as pulling charred limbs from bombed-out villages. Who thought all service was equal.

It wasn’t. Just like this yard wasn’t like the old one.

June started throwing away the junk mail addressed to Mr. Anderson. She called the post office, tried to stop the flood of circulars.

“Ma’am,” said the postman, “everyone gets them.”

Not like this. The postman didn’t trip over hedge trimmers, leaf blowers, tillers. Jugs of chemicals. Things to make things grow. Things to make them die.

She began to worry in quiet ways. Cooked more. Checked on him at night. Walked the perimeter with a flashlight when he didn’t come in by midnight. Left sticky notes: Eat something. Call Dr. Crest. Remember meds. She didn’t know if he read them. Can't stop hole in the Hoover Dam with a hand.

He stayed outside for hours in the heat. Thinner. Fragile. She told him he was obsessing. That he needed help. That he was dehydrated. Exhausted. He didn’t listen. He’d lived through worse. But he wasn’t the same. He used to not care about lawns or neighbors. He used to tell stories. They used to laugh. The house had room for laughter then.

Now it was filled with tools.

Sometimes she came out with a drink. “Daddy, here’s a lemonade. Maybe take a break? It’s muggy out.”

He’d place it in the cupholder of the mower, then forget it. The liquid turned cloudy. Molded. She threw it out days later.

“Junie Bug, once I get the gophers, I’m done. I’m not doing anything else to the yard.”

She didn’t believe him. She was right.

After the gophers came the azaleas. The pink blooms could be pinker. He studied fertilizer compounds. Tested pH levels. A woman pushing a stroller passed by.

“Beautiful flowers,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun.

Jimmy motioned toward the bushes. “This is a meditation in futility.”

She frowned. “Well, they are pretty.”

The neighbors multiplied. Jimmy became convinced each house held ten people. That every window had eyes behind it.

Those eyes watched him collapse in the grass that May. The fine Bermuda soaked in weeks of rain. He’d been siphoning water from the yard. It was drowning the lawn.

After the ambulance took him away, June wandered the house, surrounded by tools she didn’t know how to use. She ran her fingers over mower handles, the damp work gloves. Saw the stack of mail.

A funeral home brochure.

Addressed to Mr. Joshua Anderson.

The ghost that killed her father.

She called the number on the back.

Caskets were 20% off.

buggin' [I will be mature about my limits]

How did this beetle bug burrow

into the roots of the next man—

the one who lives in my tomorrow

that never arrives—the one

fleshed out with borrowed sun?

It’s been unfair—my mind.

Moves ideas like ants

ferrying eggs through compost,

scrambling from the flood 

of my hose—

haven’t noticed me.

I wish the happiness

I cannot give to others.

So go on. Get!

Get going with the beetle,

me with dirt on my thumb,

wishing I could plant 

in a life already overgrown.

I was wrong

to dream I could just

drop into the earth

and the vines wouldn't choke.

How embarrassing—

to have thought

anything at all.

Ponder now—Mushrooms

cut down—grew again

the next day. Birds perched

on them—by afternoon.

Year Eight

I watched a video about how breeders

keep the female mantis from killing the male.

Read a book that claimed

most women fall back in love

in the seventh year of marriage.

Both were related—

but missed the point.

I looked for myself in the mirror.

The person I was is gone.

Gone. Gone.

I searched your face for you.

The person you were was gone.

Gone. Gone.

What remained? Just us.

Us.

Us.

Us. Now.

Strippers and Tippers

"Septemba, do you know why you ain't make any money?" asked Anastasia.

September hadn’t thought much about it. But Anastasia was a high-earner. So she listened.

"'Cause when you up there"—Anastasia pointed at the stage in the center of the dark room—"you dancin' fo' yoself." She handed this like a prescription. September didn’t agree. She danced for the men. The men with dollars in their hands. But maybe Anastasia was right.

"How do I dance for the men?" September asked. Anastasia didn’t answer. Her gaze drifted to the stage where Envy danced. The stage was the only thing lit.

September, Anastasia, Envy—none of these were real names. The men always asked what your real name was. It didn’t matter. If pressed, the girls gave fake real names: Sarah, Brittany. Even off-stage, they called each other by stage names. You wouldn’t say a real name even if you knew it. You used the name picked on the spot when hired.

Anastasia’s acrylic nails glowed neon blue in the blacklight, her tanning-bed skin smooth in the shadows. Her bob haircut was sharp and urban. September knew it was fake. So was the accent. Under locker room lights, Anastasia’s C-section scar peeked through delicate crepe-paper skin, her body quietly betraying time. The locker room always smelled of cigarette smoke, liquor, body sweat, and sweet body spray. They sprayed cheap, sweet perfume on the carpet to help with the smell. Glitter and perfume weren’t allowed on the girls. Management rules.

That’s where Anastasia told September about her past. Married to a white man—a lawyer, a good man. Three kids. Pork roast every Sunday after church. Before crack. Before the divorce. Before she lost custody. Before the boyfriend who floated in and out of prison. Right now he was out, but usually he wasn’t. She steamed open embossed greeting cards and slid in pinches of weed before sealing them with school glue. He got a thick card every week. September didn’t understand; Anastasia once had a good man.

In hindsight, maybe September didn’t dance for the men. She got lost in the music. Maybe she danced to escape. It was a dark place—the place. A hole-in-the-wall club in the rural Midwest. The men didn’t have money. Mostly older, overweight, unhappily married. Disappointed by everything—including the girls. One sat with arms folded across his gut, Marlboro breath and a wedding ring he didn’t twist anymore. Logo of the local factory embroidered on his polo shirt.

Sometimes, a bachelor party. Or an out-of-town visitor. Someone who’d been to other clubs—clubs at least an hour away. Where drinks weren’t watered down. Where girls were more polished. Where poles were standard silver, not brass. The Bungalow Lounge poles were thick and golden, with carousel bulbs on top. Like the ones a child might hold riding a plaster pony. They weren’t stripper poles. Probably salvaged junk. But September liked to think they’d once brought joy. A former life.

At a normal club—a good club—the men from out of town would say that the men sat at the stage, tipped the dancers. At The Bungalow Lounge, they stayed along the walls, cloaked in shadow. After two songs on stage, girls roamed table to table. Pulling at panties, asking—begging—for a dollar.

"Do you want boobs?" That’s what you asked. And they always did. You aimed your tits toward their eyes, forehead. Never the mouth. Men didn’t bite—but the stubble did. Left a red rash for days. Beard burn. Raw and angry for a week. Beard burn. Every new girl learned fast. The second lesson was no body spray, no glitter. So the wives wouldn't know.

Again, September asked, "Anastasia, how do you dance for the men?"

Anastasia didn’t know. Only that September danced for herself.

So they watched Envy dance. Watched her pick up the rag at the edge of the stage. The rag was always there. September doubted management ever cleaned it. It reeked faintly of sour sweat and old beer, but it was part of the act. First song, first move: wipe the pole down. Make a show of it. Pretend the last girl was dirty, and you were the clean dream they’d waited for.

Was Anastasia watching Envy? Or her reflection? Or the corner? The one where the lap dances happened. “Private” was a loose term. No walls. No champagne room. Not like the good clubs. Just a dark corner booth with split upholstery like a roadside diner. Girls danced barefoot to keep the struggling vinyl intact. Big, old, frowning men leaned back while girls rubbed against them, in full view of the bar.

Maybe that’s why the men avoided the stage. They didn’t want to be seen.

September didn’t want to be seen either. But she didn’t have much choice.

After Envy, it was September’s turn. She asked a guy for a jukebox dollar. Picked two random songs. Ones she thought men might like. Songs she could dance for the men to.

Three steps led to the stage. She picked up the rag—tradition. She wiped both brass poles, the ends of the oblong stage—the only bright things in the room. And she danced.

She tried to see the men. Tried to see the eyes, the beards, the money. But it was dark. She saw the disco ball, the colored lights, the mirrors reflecting mirrors—reflections chasing each other, never landing. Not one real face.

So she imagined men.

She imagined fine men. Kind men. Once, there was an Irishman. Out-of-towner. He’d been to better clubs, but came back with friends to see her.

"Look at that girl, lads," he said.

"Give a wee little spin for my mates," he asked. She did a slow 360.

He smiled wide. "Corn-fed American girls. That is a body built by corn and beef. A real woman."

For weeks, she held onto that. She was sturdy. Strong. Desirable overseas.

Now, she imagined a room full of Irishmen. Hundreds. They clapped and grinned like she was worth flying across an ocean for. And she danced for them. She imagined the lights all the way on—no shadows left to hide in. So they could see all of her. Her strong body. Built by corn and beef. And she could see all of them.

Then she saw Anastasia sat at the stage. Held a dollar bill in her teeth. Tipping her at the stage like the men in nicer bars.

Anastasia wanted boobs.

And her face wouldn’t give September beard burn.

“Septemba,” she whispered, “you doin’ it. You dancin’ for them men.”

But September wasn’t. Not really. The clapping Irishmen were gone. She danced now for the only person who ever saw her.

And maybe that was enough.

exit wound

When I stand before you,

I place a hand on each shoulder.

My left is where the bullet

went in, the other near your heart.

Through your cotton shirt, I cannot feel

the scar the bullet left.

But turn around, my love.

I’ll do it again—one hand

on each shoulder, from the back.

I feel the curved, round space,

the divot where the bullet came out

fifty-five years ago.

I say,

“Put an apple in there, my dear,

in case you get hungry later.”

Spilt Milk

Dear Gentle Reader,

This isn’t one man’s story—it’s many. The names change. The ending doesn’t.

Trust your narrator. This story is not real, but it will feel real—because it plays out in nearly 50% of American homes. When the divorce papers arrive—delivered by a stranger or handed to him by his wife—men always ask: Why?

Suddenly, they reexamine the last 5 or 10 or 15 years, searching for the moment. What did he do? He never cheated. He didn’t hit her. Where was the terrible thing that made her leave?

But it isn’t there.

It was the small things. The tiny, steady injuries. Like pearls strung on a thread—clink, clink, clink—they built a necklace too heavy to wear. Or a cell, built one bead at a time. It is slow and steady, how men wear women down. The Grand Canyon was carved by a drip. But a woman is not stone. It doesn’t take a million years. Just five. Or ten. Or fifteen.

Now, dear reader, I will show you the moment a woman decides to leave.

Twelve hours had passed since she left for work. One silent hour driving to the foundry. The car radio was broken. A ten-hour shift, lifting heavy canisters, wheeling them across a warehouse that reeked of oil and heat. She wore black, like the other girls—white turned see-through with sweat. Still, it beat flipping burgers. Better than her father’s body shop.

Then: The commute home, the second hour quiet in her day. The radio, still broken.

Home—if you could call it that—was a one-room apartment with two doors: one in, one to the bathroom. The “closet” was a navy curtain draped over a mound of clothes. A 4-by-5-foot linoleum square marked the kitchen: a fridge, microwave, and sink. No stove. It felt less like a home, more like a fox’s den. A hole. A place to sleep in piles. They’d lived there two years. It was cheap.

Her husband—born William, called Billy by his friends, Bill by her—was on the futon, watching TV. The futon on which they slept. Same place he’d been that morning. Though now, he wore pants.

“Hey. How was work? You smell like smoke. Have you been smoking? I’m hungry. Can you go get Chris’ for dinner?”

The questions flowed easily. She answered only the last.

“Chris’ is expensive,” she said. “I don’t get paid till Friday. What about the Diner?”

It was cheaper. Her friend Melissa was working. There’d be a discount.

Bill picked at his thumb until it bled, then sucked it. “I want Chris’. If you pick it up, it’s cheaper—you don’t have to tip. And you don’t have to get anything for yourself if money’s tight. I’m really thirsty too. I’ll need a drink.”

She reminded him about the last Coke in the fridge. He said he was saving it. When she asked why he didn’t go get more, he said he couldn’t find his wallet. What about the $20 she left on the table? No, he was too afraid to drive without his license. The license in his wallet. The wallet she saw lying next to the futon. He had tried to find but couldn't.

A hostage negotiation followed. She should’ve seen it coming.

Eventually, she gave in. She’d been home an hour, hadn’t even showered yet. There was cereal in the cabinet. She’d just get his food. She’d stop at the gas station, buy him a cold Coke—he only drank them cold. Maybe a whole case, so he’d have some for the week. She’d eat cereal. The milk needed using. He wouldn’t drink it. He could have the last Coke while he waited.

But first: a shower.

He seemed satisfied. He got what he wanted—and more.

She turned the water on. Then: thunk.

The apartment was too small for mystery. She knew the sound came from the kitchen.

Naked, she cracked the bathroom door. Saw him sitting on the floor, surrounded by a widening pool of milk.

“What happened?” she called, not stepping out.

No answer. His face turned red. She shut off the water, put on her robe.

“What happened?” she asked again, quieter this time.

He sat like a child. “It fell. I was getting the Coke.”

She sighed. 

“Hey!” he snapped. “It wasn’t my fault. You put it in the fridge wrong.”

"It's okay, Bill. I'll clean it up." She was talking sweet. Maybe it was an accident. 

His thumb was still bleeding. His breathing, uneven. She stood above him, and he hated the way she looked at him. Towering. Disappointed. He thought: She’s being a bitch.

He’d waited all day. For dinner. For Chris’. Not the Diner. He hadn’t even drunk the Coke—if he drank it, it’d be gone. He’d dressed.  For the store. Was going to get some more. Looked for his wallet. Couldn't find it. What if a cop pulled him over? Did she want him arrested? 

Now she was home, and she didn’t understand. He didn’t want to cry. But the milk stank. All he could think of were cow udders, the hot stink of the fairgrounds, pus on raw teats. She drank that. She always smelled after work. He could smell her now.

He held in the tears. And the vomit.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Dear Gentle Reader,

I must pause here. William, with all his faults, is correct. It wasn’t always this way.

Once, they were sixteen.

She was pretty. Skipped class. Smoked menthols. Worked in her father’s body shop. A chill girl. Billy liked that.

He was soft, for a Southern boy. They called him names—faggot, fairy. But that’s what she liked. He liked books. Music. Art. Not football. The tides were turning; soon, girls in Westwood found him attractive. He used “Romantic” like a scholar. Talked about feminism like it wasn’t a joke. Read about philosophy. He just wasn't like those other guys.

They didn’t date in high school. Later, they both went to college. Reunited there. It started with a concert. A MySpace message:

“Hey Jessica. Long time no see. My favorite band’s playing in Atlanta. I’m looking for someone to go with. I’ll drive. Pay for everything. Your own hotel room too.”

And just like that, it happened.

Minus a few details he’d forgotten to mention.

Like: it was a niche indie band playing every album—including B-sides—over two nights. Hours on her feet. 9 hours to be exact. She won't know the lyrics. Won't scream at the fan-favorites. Everyone else will look so cool. A guy with a gold hoop. A girl with pink hair. This will be his scene.

She will spend most the time tugging at her stained hoodie—the one from her dad’s shop. He liked that she didn’t try too hard.

Afterward, they will share a Long Island iced tea with two straws, like a milkshake. He'll write her a poem on a napkin. Pick a flower. Tell her about bands she’s never heard of. She will like him. She will like him a lot...

And why not?

He is a good guy. He isn't like the other guys. 

That will be her first concert. There would be many more—always his bands. Her music was too mainstream. Lip-synced. A waste of money and time. Eventually, she will agree with him. Say the same to her friend Melissa when asked to go out.

But that was long ago.

They’ve filed joint taxes since. Budgeted his Cokes and her cigarettes. Argued over whose habit was worse. She was trying to quit. Just to end the argument. That's her only motive, he is sure of it.

When you have so little, everything feels like a waste—especially if someone else did it.

A whole gallon of milk on the floor. What a waste.

“Can you hand me another towel?”

Jessica, still in her robe, is on her hands and knees. She smells her own armpit—still rank from work. She’s been home two hours now.

Holding a fresh towel with two fingers—exaggerated, as if it were a soiled diaper—Bill drops it beside her.

“Thanks,” she says. “I’m almost done. I’ll go get dinner next.”

And she does.

She puts on sweatpants. A stained hoodie. Lights a cigarette she found in the car. She won’t tell him. She carries a case of Coke in one hand. Milk and Marlboro Lights in the other. She won’t tell him about the pack. She’s supposed to be quitting. She's sick of that argument.

She picks up the Styrofoam container from Chris’. Drives home. The radio still broken. She could fix it. Fixed plenty at her father's shop, but she won’t. She likes the silence. Tired of music, bands, and men who talk about them.

It’s the only silence she gets. Driving. The hour to work, the hour back; now, to the store and back. Always back—to that hole where he is. Her body sore. Her fingers raw. Seventeen hours since she left that morning. She is still stinking of the day.

Maybe, after her cereal, she’ll shower.

Maybe, soon, something will change.

But not tonight.

There isn’t much time between now and when she has to do it all again: commute,  long shift, sweat, drive, smoke, silence, him, Coke, futon, sleep.

Maybe, if she’s lucky, another moment of peace—with a cigarette, in a quiet car. Her days will stack and stack like that, until she files for divorce seven years from that day. When it happens, she doesn't cry but William does. You have to understand—she has never cried over split milk.

Dear Gentle Reader,

Did you see it?

The moment she decided to leave?

If you missed it, you weren’t meant to. That’s how it happens.

Not with screaming. Not with suitcases.

Just a woman, in silence. Holding a dirty towel. Wanting a shower. Buying milk. Smoking again.

She's gone. Seven years before the divorce papers.

He just didn’t notice as he drank a Coke. It was just another Wednesday.

How I long to wedge myself into every part of your life—

Yes, every corner of what you hold dear should carry a hint of me.

I suppose I’m a bit of a spoiled brat that way.

Before You Meet Her, I Have to Warn You

Listen—please. I’m from the future. I don’t have much time.

You’ll meet a girl. Pretty. She once won a beautiful baby contest at a mall. Her hair flows all the way down her back. She wears it loose, in a low ponytail, or in that single loop girls do. Never dyed, never straightened, never curled. It’s virgin hair—and so is she, when you meet her.

At sixteen, she’ll call an ex-boyfriend to come over. Her only reason: it was time.

Her teeth are even straighter than her hair—braces once, long gone. She speaks in T-shirts: Happy Bunny slogans, Metallica, Marilyn Manson, Tool. They’re either skin-tight or swallowed-whole oversized. Her pants? Always baggy. You’ll learn she’s insecure about her hips—always hiding, always deflecting. Swimming in board shorts and a string bikini top, she pulls at the fabric. Unsure about her ass. Or her chin. There's a little dimple she calls a “butt chin,” but really, it’s just a cute dimple. You’ll press your thumb to it.

She has a brother she calls “Beef” or “Meat.” Never his real name. In time, you'll call him that too.

Her stepmom works at an occult shop. Once, you’ll go together. Crystal balls. Tarot cards. Dried herbs in glass jars. You’ll buy a green stone ring.

This girl you’ll meet will be vegetarian, then pescatarian, then back to meat again.

The house is a zoo: cats, hamsters, spiders, birds. A parrot named Jakken-Bakken that sings “PoooooooooooooooOooooop” when it poops. You’ll try not to laugh, but you will. Every time.

Also at her house, there’s only milk, tap water, and canned Diet Coke. A whole fridge shelf for the cans. You’ll notice no one drinks the water. Or the milk. “A drink” always means Diet Coke.

There’s a thick pink scar down her right foot, from toe to ankle. Yet she walks with confidence. She eats green peppers straight from the plant, unwashed. Whole. Crunches seeds like bones. Eats ramen dry—crushed in the bag with the seasoning shaken in. She’s chill like rivers are chill—and you’ll wade in deep enough to drown.

Only eyeliner and mascara. Naturally pretty. Never boy-crazy, but she almost always has a boyfriend. Like the twenty keychains on her belt loop, most of them are decorative.

She finds you funny. Laughs every time you mess up. Thinks it’s all an on-purpose joke. You don’t ever correct her.

You’ll be best friends. Inseparable. Your families will vacation together, do joint Christmases. You’ll get drunk for the first time together. First tattoos, too. You'll go Downtown. Walk the canal. Take off your shoes. Stick your bare feet in the dirty water. Fish will nibble your toes. Each fish will soon have a name. You’ll sneak into cemeteries at night and lie on baby graves, staring up at the sky, asking questions no one answers. You’ll share concerts, showers, beds. Your lives will braid together like her wet hair.

Listen to me. I’m from the future. And this is an important warning.

When you meet her, she wants to become a pilot—but she has astigmatism. Maybe an airplane mechanic. When she tells you this, she’s never even been on a plane.

Her first flight, she’ll be sitting next to you. She’ll narrate every sound, every rattle and shift:

“That’s the wheels going up.”

“That’s the flap they move to turn.”

That trip, she’ll see the ocean for the first time. You’ll be there, watching her run barefoot into the waves, scar glinting pink against the salt.

Her next flight will be to the Middle East—

As a truck driver in the Air Force. Nails perfect shooting marks. Wears her hair in a regulation bun and writes letters home on loose-leaf paper that smells faintly of smoke.

She’ll die on Memorial Day. Afghanistan. A bomb. A quick death, painless—at least that’s what they’ll say. She’ll be 22. There won’t be much of the body left.

---

I don’t mean to upset you. I’m here to warn you.

Run toward this heartbreak. Don’t flinch. Don’t hesitate.

Every minute will be worth it. Just to know her.

This will happen. It has to happen.

I wanted to warn you.

I know how it ends—because I lived it.

So please: treasure every moment.

A Millennial Fairytale: Two College Girls High at Taco Bell

“Want to go to Taco Bell?” Caroline asked Kim.

They had been smoking all day. Smoking and laughing. Laughing and snuggling. Snuggling under a blanket that smelled like Old Spice and new weed. They had not moved more than two feet in seven hours. Except to pee. And even then, the bathroom trips felt like epic quests. Bold adventures. Like Frodo crossing Mordor. Like Odysseus steering home. Like stoned girls shuffling across linoleum in mismatched socks.

It was good weed.

The kind of good that made you speak in parables. That made a shadow look like a rabbit. That made you think about God. Kids these days don’t know. They don’t remember. They can just cross a border now. Illinois. Michigan. Ohio. Legal weed. Menu weed. Lab-grown, terpene-tested, scientifically blessed. With names like Space Daddy and Peach Nightmare. Labeled for body high, mind high, spirit high.

But back in 2007. Or maybe 2008. Or maybe 2009. Back whenever it was — weed came from a guy. A guy you met through a guy. A guy who lived in a second-floor apartment that smelled like mildew and Axe body spray and oftentimes feet. There was always an iguana in a glass box. The iguana was real. The ashtrays were full. The sandwich bags were generic. Scarface was always on. Or Family Guy. Or both. It was called “chronic,” whether it was or not.

Sometimes it popped. Seeds in the bowl. Seeds that jumped and screamed like popcorn. You needed a bobby pin to dig them out. Or a safety pin. Or maybe a stick from outside. Sometimes it was bad. So bad it made the corn husks outside look appealing. But this time? This time it was good. Really good. For 2007. Or 2008. Or 2009. Or whenever this was.

So: Taco Bell.

Caroline asked, “Taco Bell?”

And Kim said, “Yes. But drive-thru. You know how Taco Bell gets.”

Caroline’s eyes got big. “Kim. That’s such a good idea.”

It was a good idea.

Because Taco Bell, when you're high, when you're together, when you're both high and together — was a place of dreams. And nightmares. And things in between.

Like that time the dining room was full of Asian teenagers. Wall to wall. Like a youth group trip. Like a vision. And in a rural Hoosier town, it felt like a hallucination. Caroline thought it was the first time she'd ever been the minority in a public space. But as soon as they ordered and sat down, the teenagers left. All of them. Just vanished. The girls sat alone. Eating tacos. Wondering if it had happened at all.

Or the Dad-day time.

The line was long. The girls were holding in giggles like water in cupped hands. A boy tugged on a man’s shirt. “Dad-day?”

But it wasn’t confident. It was a question. A plea. And the man turned. Half a face. A hole where his nose should be. A dip, a slope, a horror-show. Kim and Caroline flinched. The boy flinched too — as if still getting used to the new geography of his father’s face. Caroline grabbed Kim’s hand. Held it to the counter. Held it through the order. Held it all the way to the car.

And once in the car — they howled. Laughed until Caroline peed a little. For years afterward, decades maybe, one could just say “Dad-day?” and they'd both dissolve.

So yes. The drive-thru was safer.

Maybe this time, they could go unscathed. No surprises. No faces missing pieces. No mystery teenagers or possums on leashes. No Mormon missionaries with glossy pamphlets. No rednecks with shotguns. Just tacos. Just cheese. Just quiet.

They climbed into Caroline’s car.
Which had once been Kim’s car.
Which had once been a car.
But was now a ghost of a car. A myth of a car. A rattletrap machine with no working gas gauge, no speedometer, two windows stuck partway down, and a dent from a one-armed girl who drove with her elbow while holding a phone with her only hand.

The insurance paid out. Kim got a new car. Caroline got this one. She gave Kim $200 and a bag of weed for it. Or maybe it was just stems.

It was a blessing.

Caroline popped in Circus by Britney Spears. The CD player still worked — a miracle. iPods were everywhere by then, and yet cars still clung to cassette decks and CD slots. This was before Bluetooth. So came the adapters. Wires everywhere. But for a ten-minute drive? CD was fine. It only had a small scratch.

“Look!” said Kim. “No line!”

No line.
No cars.
Just them.

Hope shimmered.

The order was simple. The voice on the speaker got it right. No repeats. No substitutions. No riddles.

At the window, the cashier said, “I like your pants.”

Caroline blinked. “Thanks. They’re hers.”

They were Kim’s pants. No one remembered why.

The cashier raised an eyebrow. Shut the window.

One minute passed.
Then two.
Then five.
Then eight.
Then ten.

Each time the window cracked open, the cashier emerged like a wizard with a question.
“Want hot sauce?”
“Need napkins?”
“Craving cinnamon twists?”

Finally, at minute fifteen, she burst out and yelled toward the kitchen:

“How many spics does it take to throw together a fucking taco?”

The girls’ eyes met. Did she really just say that?

And then — poof — the food appeared. As if by magic. As if summoned by the slur.

The spell broke. But the story remained.

They drove home laughing. Laughing at the drive-thru. Laughing at the day. Laughing because Taco Bell was never just Taco Bell.

It was a realm.
A vortex.
A portal.

And when Caroline and Kim were high, and together, and hungry?

Taco Bell was always strange.
And always wonderful.
And always, always — just a little bit cursed.

Even now, years later, they’ll text each other on slow afternoons. One word. Sometimes two.

“Dad-day?”

And somewhere, in a different city, with a brand new car, and a legal vape pen, one of them will laugh.

Because nothing was ever just a Taco Bell run. Even after all these years and a couple of Taco Bell rebrands.

Live Màs.

Prison Rules

She was moving because she was getting divorced—carrying boxes into the house of a new guy. She was certain she would marry him, the homeowner, but not yet. Not until her divorce was finalized.

In her hands, a shoebox full of canary yellow envelopes. Uniform in color and size. All addressed to a P.O. Box in Indianapolis. The return address had no name—no first, no last—just a nine-digit number. An inmate number. Red letters stamped the envelopes: INMATE CORRESPONDENCE. A warning followed, noting the contents were subject to examination.

Letters from her father.

Since the '90s, since she was a child, she had carried that box from home to home. Eight homes in total: childhood homes, dorm rooms, apartments, the spare bedroom of her first husband’s family.

She carried them to remember. For proof—if someone ever doubted her. Sharing her childhood felt like being on the witness stand: too many gaps in the story, too fantastic a tale, too few details.

As she walked past the trash can toward the front door of the home she would occupy for the next five years, she paused. The box was suddenly heavy. Her arms hurt.

She no longer cared to prove anything to anyone—because she knew, finally, what was real.

At one point, she had told a therapist that when she was ready to let go of the letters, she would burn them. But that seemed too formal, too dramatic—too meaningful a send-off.

Tossing them in the garbage, like a bloody tampon to live with the cat shit, felt right.

She propped open the lid and flipped the box in. It landed on top of banana peels and grocery sacks of used kitty litter.

She remembered a Sunday morning in the car—eight years old again.

"I don't want to go," the little girl had whined from the passenger seat.

"Now, Carrie, I already promised him," her mother said firmly.

They were supposed to be going to church. But she noticed the route wasn’t familiar. Not a church route. It was a less familiar, yet still known one.

"Are we going to the prison?" Carrie asked. But she already knew the answer.

She didn’t particularly want to go to church—but she definitely didn’t want to go to prison.

They were close. They had passed the sign warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers.

Around then, her mother would give the usual reminder: Don’t act like a brat.

In the dirt and gravel parking lot, the mother and daughter got out and walked to a small, closet-sized shed by the gate. Inside, a man took their names and license plate number. Her mother always forgot it, so Carrie had to run back to the car, read it out loud, and recite it.

"She’s a really smart girl," her mother would beam, patting her on the shoulder.

The man didn’t acknowledge the compliment. He just pressed a button. A buzzer sounded. The high chain-link fence crowned with barbed wire opened.

"Have a good visit," he said. He said that to all of them. His supervisor called it customer service. He called it a waste of breath when talking to his wife.

Long corridors. A locker room. Her mother surrendered her purse and keys. A few folded bills from her wallet went into a clear sandwich bag.

They entered the women’s side. Female visitors were patted down by female guards, male visitors by male guards—in separate rooms. The women’s side was always crowded. Carrie often thought it would be faster if they could just use the men’s line.

"Arms out," a large woman commanded. They complied.

Metal detector.

Carrie always feared it would go off on her. Why? She didn’t know. But she was always scared she’d do something wrong here.

After inspecting their shoes, the guard turned to the mother.

"What is your relationship with the inmate Thompson? Girlfriend? Wife?"

"Oh no! I'm not dating him."

"Okay, so you're his friend?"

"Not really. I'm here with her—she's his daughter."

"Yes, she is his daughter. I know that. What is your relationship? Court appointed escort?"

The girl looked from face to face as the women squared off over the miscommunication. Why did mom always make it so hard?

Finally, she stepped in, pulling a word from an afternoon TV show she wasn’t supposed to watch.

"She’s his baby mama. I'm his daughter and she is my mother."

Checking a box on her clipboard the guard said, "Oh. Okay. You can proceed. Remember the rules," the guard said, pointing to a large wall of them.

No sitting on laps.

Inmates are not allowed to handle money.

Hands visible on the table.

No yelling.

All clothing, including shoes and jackets, must stay on at all times.

There were more rules, but they were already being escorted toward the visitors' room.

But her mother reviewed the important ones in the car every time:

Don’t tell him anything personal—not your best friend's name, not your school, not your teacher’s name.

Don’t let him touch money.

If we get him a candy bar, you put the dollar in and press the buttons.

Be sure to tell him how well you’re doing in school.

Don’t talk too much.

Don’t talk to anyone but me and him and the guards.

Only answer the guards' questions.

Don’t offer anything extra.

The visiting room wasn’t like on TV. No Plexiglass. No phones. It looked like an elementary school cafeteria—round tables with plastic chairs. A wall of vending machines: candy bars, chips, sodas. A coffee and hot chocolate machine that ground beans before spitting hot liquid into cups that dropped like magic. Always too hot.

Nothing over two dollars.

A mural of a beach scene was crudely painted on plywood and mounted to the wall. After the visit, you and the inmate could pose for a Polaroid in front of it. She had at least seven like that—in the same box that held the letters. Letters from her father. Always addressed to the P.O. Box her mom had opened just for him.

They were directed to a round table.

"Inmate Thompson will be with you shortly."

He approached, escorted by a guard. Her father seemed bigger than last time. As he always said, "Nothing in prison but to work out and read and write letters." His uniform wasn’t black-and-white stripes. It was denim. Levi’s jeans. Levi’s button-up shirt. A sliver of a white undershirt peeked from the collar.

No hugs. Other inmates hugged their visitors, but not him. Not them. No hugs. That was a rule reviewed in the car.

Hands flat on the table where the guards could see them.

"Can I hold your hand?" he asked.

The girl looked at her mother, who gave a small nod. He took her hand. It was heavy. Damp with sweat. She didn’t like it.

A few weeks later, a letter arrived, addressed to her:

“Sorry if your old geezer daddy embarrassed you by holding your hand. I’ll never do it again if you don’t want me to. You’re just growing into such a beautiful young lady. I got a little carried away holding your hand like that. I forget sometimes how grown-up you're getting. You’re not a little kid anymore. Still, you’ll always be my little girl.

I’ve been reading a lot, getting stronger. Stronger than I’ve ever been. Smarter too. You’d be surprised what a man can learn when he’s got nothing but time. When I get out, we’ll have a lot to talk about. Real talks. The way smart people, like us, talk."

She carried that letter for years. But it was instantly obvious—to both her and her mother—that she hadn’t been embarrassed.

Embarrassment is raising your hand in class and getting the answer wrong.

What she felt that day was fear—the uneasy, creeping kind that comes from not knowing exactly why you feel unsafe. At the time, she didn’t fully understand why he was there. Her mother first called it a small incident with drugs. Later, at nine-years-old, she was told the truth.  It had been a yearlong thing with a six-year-old girl.Deep down, Carrie had always known.

After a few silent minutes of hand holding, her mother intervened.

"Hey, Tommy, you want something to eat?"

"Sure," he said, releasing the girl's hand. She followed her parents to the vending machines, relieved.

"Why don’t you help your father, Carrie?" her mother said, handing her the sandwich bag of bills.

"Okay."

"I want a Snickers. That’s A9. And Lay’s chips. I ain’t had those in a while. That’s R3. Can you do that, Carrie? Can’t you, sweetie?" he asked.

The pet name felt uncomfortable. Like wearing a wet swimsuit all day, even if it was just for a second.

"Yeah."

She pulled out a dollar and fed it into the machine. Her small fingers pressed A, then 3.

The machine whirred and dropped a Cookies and Cream bar.

She knew her mistake immediately.

"I’m sorry," she whispered.

"Well, I guess you’ll have to have that candy, Carrie," her mother said, taking the money back. She didn’t particularly want a Cookies and Cream bar, but for the next ten years, everyone would think it was her favorite.

Seeing money change hands, a guard with a gun on his hip stepped closer to watch. Her mother rolled her eyes as if to mockingly say "God forbid an inmate almost touch a dollar bill."

Sighing, the mother said to the inmate:

"I’ll just have to do it myself as usual. You know, she’s smart in other ways. She’s been doing good in school. She's book smart. Like you. What you been reading, Tom?"

Yes, Carrie was smart. Smart enough to carry it all for years—because no one would believe her.

Not when hundreds of men behind those walls shared the same story.

And carrying that weight was the only way for their children to survive.

Vignettes of Marriage #3: His Cigars

He was buying too many things.

Four watches last month. One had a 21-jewel Swiss movement—rare now, especially in that condition. Chronograph. Another was the kind dogfighters used in the Great War to time bombs. Or WWII. He didn't remember. He didn’t need it. But he liked the weight. The idea of it.

Then the knives. Damascus steel. Camel bone handles. Solid in the hand. They looked old and felt older. That pleased him. Shoes too—he needed something that didn’t make his feet scream by noon. Goddamn swamp foot. A parting gift from Uncle Sam.

She was singing in the kitchen. Some pop song. Name he didn’t know. Artist he didn’t care to learn. If she’d said it, he’d forgotten. Her voice wasn’t good. And loud. The kind of loud that rattled the places war had chewed into him.

“Hey!” he called. “Can you bring me a tea? I need you to read this mole poison.”

The container looked like a dunce cap. The print, impossibly small. He turned it in his hand like it might confess its secrets if stared at long enough.

He lit a cigar. Not a good one. A placeholder. The good ones were still out of stock.

She came in smiling, carrying the tea like she always had one hand free for him.

“What do you need me to read, babe?”

He handed her the cone.

She read aloud. He watched her mouth, her hands, the glint of her ring. She had a master’s. He bragged about it—not to her, but to strangers. “She’s smart,” he’d say. “Smarter than me.”

“It says sprinkle it sideways,” she said, miming the motion. “Laterally in the tunnel. Like that.”

He nodded and took the poison outside.

The air had cooled just enough to sting. He dropped the pellets where they belonged—sideways, a teaspoon at a time. The moles wouldn’t see it coming. The little bastards tearing up his yard.

When he finished, he sank into a cheap lawn chair. Exhaled. The cigar didn’t taste right. Too dry. Too sweet. A poor imitation.

He pulled out his phone. The cigar site was still open.

The good ones—finally restocked.

He hit “Checkout” before the part of him that still hesitated could speak.

It wasn’t just the cigars. Or the knives. Or the watches. 

It was the house.

Too quiet when she left for work. He’d wander through it, unsure what to touch. The walls felt like they were waiting. So he scrolled. Something for her. Something for him. Something for the garden.

She liked the garden. He liked the quiet way she made it bloom. Liked how she talked to the beans when she didn't know he was listening. He bought her colorful windmills—plastic and pointless. They spun and she smiled. He bought gnome statues too.

That helped.

The doctor said the cigars had to go. Said his lungs were darkening. Said, “You’ve got time, but not much.”

He didn’t argue. But he didn’t stop.

He’d been dying since ‘Nam. This was just the long part.

The sun had gone down without telling him.

She stepped onto the porch and flicked on the light. He blinked at her silhouette.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” she asked.

He hadn’t noticed. Had he been asleep?

She squinted at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, softer now. “You just look like you’re thinking about something sad.”

He reached out. Touched her knee.

“No,” he said. “Just thinking I need to buy you something.”

She tilted her head. Smiled—confused, sweet, surprised. Then:

“You already do,” she said. “I have enough.”

She was laughing, brushing it off—but she knew what he meant.

The good cigars were on the way.

The watches marked the quiet hours.

The knives stayed sharp.

The windmills spun.

The house still stood.

And she was home.

Vignettes of Marriage #2: Her Ring

“I don’t really want to go to Home Depot without you,” he said, as if the idea itself exhausted him.

She flopped back on the couch, clawing at her sweatpants with exaggerated flair, like a cat resisting a bath. Her tongue lolled, her eyes rolled. She tugged at her oversized T-shirt—once her mother’s, now stretched thin from wear. Her mother—gone now.

He threw up his hands. “Fine! I’ll go by myself! Make the old man do everything! Can’t take you anywhere!”

She laughed too hard to answer, though she tried, wheezing and wiping at her eyes. He shook his head, grinning.

When they finally caught their breath, she said, “No, I’ll go. If you’re getting stuff for the garden, I want to have input. Let me just change.”

As she walked to the bedroom, he called after her, “And wash your hands too! Naaas-ty!”

He dragged the word out slow and round, like a yawning hippo. She was still smiling as she came back out, fresh clothes on.

He stood at the kitchen sink, sunlight pouring over his gray mustache and grizzled face. When he saw her, he pointed to the windowsill. Her wedding ring teetered on a slim holder, one careless nudge from the drain.

“I almost knocked this in,” he said, turning to her, eyes wide. “That’s literally five thousand dollars that could’ve gone down the drain.”

Later, she’d laugh at the wordplay. But now, her stomach turned.

Last night, while she was “playing house”—what she called sweeping, mopping, doing dishes—she’d slipped off her ring and set it on the sill, just for a few minutes.

She’d forgotten it this time.

She’d been too busy savoring the moment: her hands in warm, soapy water, the sun sinking behind the garden, rabbits hopping through the yard. The air fresher. The colors brighter. The dinner tasted better. Her husband shouting at the basketball game from the other room as she smelled his cigar smoke.

“Atlanta down two. Indiana finally in the lead!”

She soaked it in—the life she’d once imagined for Barbie and Ken: bunnies in the yard, tomato plants in the garden, dirty dishes, game-day noise.

So caught up in the dream she’d made real, she’d left the ring. It could’ve fallen in. Maybe a bird would’ve seen the glint, pecked at the glass, tried to carry it off. Maybe that was silly—but still. He had nearly knocked it into the drain.

It wasn’t just a ring. Or five grand.

It was everything it stood for.

Most wedding rings are about vows, commitment, permanence. This one was that too—but it was more.

Her first ring had been rose gold and morganite. A Pinterest-inspired pick from a younger version of herself: sentimental, swept up in trends, still learning who she was. An overthought, short-sighted choice.

But five years in—after her mother died, after she earned her master’s, after his parents and son passed, after the move—he insisted on a new one.

A real ring. Diamonds. Something lasting. A ring for the woman she had become.

She said she liked the one she had. And she did. But mostly, she didn’t want to seem like she needed anything.

So one afternoon, he surprised her—drove her to a jewelry store, no warning.

“Do you like silver or gold?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I guess I like both.”

He turned to the saleswoman. “Show us all the silver and gold rings with a center stone over two carats.”

She brought out a velvet tray lined with diamonds. But "the one" wasn’t on it.

It was still behind the glass.

“What about that one?” she asked.

The saleswoman frowned. “That’s 1.9 carats. You asked for two or more.”

“But...” she began. It wasn’t the size—it was the shape. The side stones. The delicate halo. The way the smaller diamonds lifted the larger one—like how all the little moments of their life had propped up the big ones.

He placed his broad hand—still wearing his late father’s wedding band—against the glass, leaving a print.

“Ma’am,” he said softly, “the lady likes that one.”

And just like that, she chose. Quickly. Clearly. Like a woman looking far into the future. A woman he knew would stay until the end.

Now, that ring—their ring—had almost gone down the drain.

She looked at him. What could she say?

“Oh my God, babe. It will never happen again.” 

As she slipped on the ring again, he muttered, half-smiling, “There. That’s more like it. Now can we go to Home Depot? My garden consultant’s on the clock."

Vignettes of Marriage #1: Their Soft Spots

"Do you always have to be a smartass?" he asked.

She quipped back without missing a beat, "Better than a dumbass."

She chuckled, pleased with her own cleverness.

From the outside, it might look like a mean-spirited spat between husband and wife. But it wasn’t. They were playing. They were having fun. In truth, they rarely ever fought.

Sure, they might nip at each other now and then—like puppies do. Like marriages steeped in sarcasm and humor often do. A nip: when two puppies tussle and one bites just a bit too hard, or the other is just a bit too sensitive. The fun turns sour. One is nipped, the other the nipper, and both are left confused. A few minutes later, they're playing again. They aren't bad dogs.

But the soft spots—

They lie dormant, waiting. A nip draws them out.

In marriage, it might look like this:

She holds the cat while he gives it a pill. She strokes its fur and murmurs, “It’ll be over soon. We’re doing this for your own good.”

The world pauses.

The air is still.

The cat is still.

The pill is gone.

The sun isn't shining through the window.

Then, the looming bellow: “Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ever say that. Don’t say it’s for their own good. You never know what’s good for someone else.”

She’s taken aback. “So what should I say?”

He sighs. “If you have to say anything, say, ‘We’re trying our best to help you.’ At least that’s true. But never say it’s for their good. We don’t get to decide that.”

Like a puppy biting too close to the tender edge of an ear, she had hit a soft spot. A bruised place, like fruit just past ripe.

Did this spot trace back to a priest speaking to an abused boy? A parent? A teacher? Maybe to soldiers in Vietnam, justifying horror with, It’s for their own good.

She’ll probably never know. He isn’t opening up—not in this moment. But when he does talk, his soft spots often lead back to Vietnam. Not in stories about the war, but in everyday conversation—so casual, it gives her millennial mind whiplash.

Sometimes she just shrugs it off as a "Boomer thing." One of the small conveniences of an age-gap marriage: you can blame anything on the generational divide.

Like when they’re watching Cheech and Chong and he says, “That’s like a marijuana shake-’em-up.”

She feels the pull of a story and asks the question he seems to will her into asking: “What’s a marijuana shake-’em-up?”

“Oh,” he says, “it was this paper cone with loose—so loose—cheap weed in it. The Vietnamese women sold them. You’d shake them forever to get them packed enough to smoke. Those women would always try to get you to meet their daughters. I guess they thought we’d take them to America if we fell in love. But the shake-’em-ups were cheap and everywhere. The girls too.”

He pauses.

Is he seeing one of those daughters now? Recalling a mother offering her child in exchange for a chance at another life? Is he tasting the rough, stem-and-seed shake? Smelling burning napalm?

He once told her napalm smelled really good. Sometimes, she wonders what napalm actually smelled like. He said it could pass for a cologne or a candle—if no one knew what it really was. He said it was kind of like gasoline and laundry but sweet. So sweet.

She would close her eyes, feel the heavy dampness of Vietnam air, the loud and strange noises of war in the jungle, see a large snake in the waist-deep water. Napalm was there too, but she didn't know what it smelled like.

But the scent of burned human flesh? She knew the smell. Because he said it reminded him of slow-cooked food. The burning hair, he said, smelled gross. But the flesh? Familiar.

That’s why he won’t eat Southern BBQ. The smell reminds him too much of war—slow-cooked meat, smoke, charred skin. It's the same thing. So, despite living in Alabama, she’s never had a bite. Her coworkers keep telling her she’s missing out. Maybe she is. But she doesn't believe it.

Maybe war tastes like BBQ too.

The most mundane things like BBQ can awaken a soft spot. Even pants could bring something up.

At Costco, he holds up a pair of cargo pants. “We had these in ’Nam. But the pockets were deeper. You could fit a body in them.”

She wanders under fluorescent lights into the chips aisle wondering: Was he exaggerating? Are children’s bodies that small? Or were the pockets really that big? She stuck a hand in her tiny front pocket with just lint and a quarter—the kind you save for parking meters or gumball machines.

But sometimes, it’s her soft spots that awaken his.

Yes. She had soft spots too.

One in particular surfaced a few years back, on a quiet drive through her old neighborhood. They were headed to a funeral—her best friend’s mother had passed—and they took a route that wound past her childhood home. Freshly renovated. A new family inside. It looked both unfamiliar and unchanged, like a dream someone else had remembered for her.

After the funeral, they visited her best friend’s grave at the front of the same cemetery—mother and daughter together at last. It was easy to find, next to a big, shady tree. She placed a little red Hot Wheels car—bought earlier, just for this—on the headstone and broke. Shaking, sobbing, reaching for anything—a napkin, a tissue, a scrap of cloth.

He took off his shirt and handed it to her. She wiped her eyes, then blew her nose into it. It smelled like fresh laundry and his sweat. Maybe even a little sweet. Maybe like napalm.

Bare in just an undershirt, he wrapped his arms around her and said, “Baby, you can never go home.”

She looked up, startled. “What do you mean?” This was home. Her city. Her roots. A block from the diner where she worked after school. She was born here.

“You can never go home. You’ve seen the elephant. That’s what we told the new guys—ones crying for their moms, wanting to go back. How can you go back to the farm after you’ve seen the elephant? You can’t. You’ve been shot at. You’ve shot back. You’ve seen the elephant. You’ve grown up. You’re different now. You’ll never crawl into your mama’s arms again, drink a milkshake, or watch a movie the same way again. You’re different. And this”—he touches his chest, white undershirt, gold chain—“this is home now.”

This wasn’t banter.

This wasn’t playful.

This wasn’t a nip.

This was two soft spots meeting, melting, hardening.

This is how he had survived, and how she would too.

Back in the truck, he took her hand.

“Don’t look back,” he said. “Look ahead. We’re going home.”

He lit a cigar and the smoke caressed her face.

Unlike Lot’s wife, she obeyed.

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t look ahead, either.

Just down at his crumpled shirt in her lap—soaked in her tears and snot. They were quiet the rest of the way. Him without a shirt and her not looking back. Just a smartass and a dumbass in love.

I act exactly as I have always acted.

No surprises here.

silver lining

One of the few silver linings of being the second-to-last living member of your family is the strange freedom that lies ahead. Someday soon, in the not-so-distant future, you'll be able to do anything—absolutely anything—without the weight of a family name to dishonor or voices of shame echoing behind you. They’ll all be gone. Thanks to you mother’s barren sisters and a high rate of cancer, the bloodline is ending. And when that day comes, the only possible lecture left will be the one inside your own head.

The Unicorn in the Garden: Fifty-Four Dollars of Memory

Sunday, May 11, 7:38 p.m., text message from Aunt Becky:

"Hi. And happy fur Mother’s Day. I went up to New York City yesterday for a performance. I found a couple of things for you that reminded me of your mother. I also got a $35 henna tattoo."

Me:

"It’s so thoughtful of you to send me something that reminds you of my mom. I’m sure you feel it too—Mother’s Day gets a little weird after your mom’s gone."

Her:

"Yep, it’s weird. And so is Father’s Day when they’re gone—and not having kids to be their mom or have a father person."

She says “fur Mother’s Day” because we’re both childless adult orphans, my aunt and I. But we have cats. The last two Kleins—even if, through marriage, we now have different last names. We orbit each other—tentative, awkward—desperate to connect, and scared to be rejected.

Her trip to the Met on Mother’s Day felt significant. I’ve never been—to the Met or to New York. Certainly not on Mother’s Day.

When her package of mother-relics arrived, I opened it slowly, uncertain of what grief might feel like in bubble wrap. Inside: a mouse pad, an enamel pin, and a greeting card with delicate quilling. Each featured The Unicorn Rests in a Garden, one of the Unicorn Tapestries. The price tags were still on, which meant I knew exactly what it cost her to remember my mother and share those memories with me: fifty-four dollars.

I sent a quick thank-you text. She replied, “It was ironic that I was at The Cloisters on Mother’s Day.”

I had to Google The Cloisters... and then, just to be sure, “ironic.” I texted back, “It was!”—even though I wasn’t convinced it really was. The museum was open, and she was there by choice. Seeing medieval art on Mother’s Day didn’t seem any more ironic than me watching Beavis and Butt-Head that same morning.

Still, something about it struck an angelic chord. Maybe it was the effort. Maybe it was the gesture. Maybe it was simply that someone remembered.

And the things she sent—they felt like my mother. But not the version I knew as an adult. They brought back the woman I vaguely remember as a child. Maybe even the one my aunt knew better: before the bitterness, before the disappointment. A mother who still collected unicorns. Who still believed in magic. A woman who vanished long before she actually died.

That version of my mother is someone I’ve come to grieve in pieces. Unlike Aunt Becky, I have no such relics to offer her—nothing of her mother’s, or even of her. My own mother made sure of that. She spent decades keeping both my aunt and grandmother out of our lives. I was left with only a few cryptic explanations, scattered like breadcrumbs by a wounded, vengeful woman to a trusting, hungry child. They didn’t make sense then. They still don’t.

And yet, I still find myself trying to make sense of it. Maybe family is just complicated. Maybe, as an only child, I’ll never fully grasp the tangled roots of sibling rivalry. My successful aunt—a towering figure—against my struggling single mom.

Or maybe it was more personal: the college boyfriend my mom slept with. The husband she cheered when he got another woman—not my aunt—pregnant. The petty, private feuds that bloomed into lifelong rifts.

I’ll never know the full truth, and maybe that’s the inheritance: an unsolvable puzzle. Still, for all the silence and suspicion, this same aunt—estranged, distant—might have known my mother better than I ever could.

What I do know is this: my mother never went to the Met. Never visited The Cloisters. Never saw the Unicorn Tapestries. Not on Mother’s Day. Not on any day. And she didn’t have $54 to spend in any gift shop. She was not like Aunt Becky.

So what becomes of the unrealized dreams of the dead? Do they linger in the spaces they leave behind?

No. They live in the mess of the living who remain.

They become a mouse pad on my desk.

An enamel pin on my corkboard.

A card too beautiful to send.

A package sent across a silent rift,

a thank-you to an aunt
my mother vowed never to speak to again.

Maybe that’s ironic.

Or maybe it’s just one of grief’s stranger tricks: the only way left to commune with my mother is through the person she tried so hard to erase.

Her legacy lives in me, but only if I tear down what she built to keep others out. And perhaps—though I barely dare say it—I’m starting to admire Aunt Becky. She’s reaching out—in the quiet, in the after—when my mother never did.

Perhaps, someday, I will be at The Cloisters on Mother's Day.
Wouldn't that be ironic?