Emma
Emma “For You!” you’d say, with outstretched arms offering me flowers cut short at the stem you had been holding so tightly. Your smile, a moon crescent in a pastel sky at dusk. Eyes brilliant from a contained giggle, you’d disappear down the yellow hallway. I miss your extravagance— bangs over uncertain brown eyes, little pudge by the armpits, lipstick over pouting lips for a dress-up photograph, your drawings of colorful dainty women in high heels and high hairdos, the lice you brought home from school and that horrible haircut, a floppy hat to hide it, our chatting after homework was done. I see your naked body hopping in the rain, shivering defiantly under the roof’s downpour, the orange door where I waited with dry towels. I remember your lurking behind African violets to watch me when I wanted privacy and silence; I threw my sandals at your forever-chattering-Christmas-present-parakeets in their high-hung cage. Now I have a house of my own. I hooked a crucifix at the front door. Every year’s seasons are stations of the cross. There is no soft blue bedroom here like the one we once knew, tulips standing on a marble tabletop next to broken figurines glued back together. ...
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