Car accident on a rain-slick road outside town. Fire. Closed casket. A police officer at my kitchen table saying, “I’m so sorry.” A funeral I barely remember. A death certificate I signed through a fog so thick I could hardly read my own name.
I was at the kitchen table pretending to drink soup.
A few weeks ago, my hair started coming out in clumps.
So I cut my hair short, wrapped scarves around my head, and tried to act like it did not matter.
Then one afternoon she came home from school, dropped her backpack by the door, and held out a box.
“I got you something,” she said.
I was at the kitchen table pretending to drink soup. “From where?”
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