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74 JOAN MAZZA It Comes in Waves Foolish to think your grief is over, although so many years have passed. It only takes a little whiff—the scent of bleach, and Mother hasn’t died. She’s here without the cancer brewing. You’re in Brooklyn. Father’s there and your sister is at the table. They’re in the usual places, dinner not yet over, a salad at the table’s center. No brouhaha about who stayed out past curfew. Your mother’s hair isn’t dyed; she’s wearing cologne: Heaven Scent. The meal starts with lentil soup. (A few cents could feed four.) A cut up chicken’s there, broiled under the shiny dome—that oldie died— Brillo-ed every night. Father isn’t hung over and he isn’t fifty yet, hasn’t passed into depression. Your passion’s brewing for a boy named Anthony, already into the brew that will take him down. No one has the sense to see he’s alcoholic, just like Dad. He passes for normal, long before you know they’re all crazy. You are, too. But first you’ll overdress , look so good any guy would die to have you. It’s long before you’ll hate dyeing your hair. Memories come in waves, brew while you sleep, wake you though you’re overtired . You replay the scenes with better sense and measured words. Experts with their smug pronouncements say all grief passes with time. But feelings come in waves, the past rises up, and on the crest are those who’ve died: seated at the table, displaying all their quirks. Father rubs his ear, his rage brewing. The air fills with frying garlic’s scent. The sniping starts and pauses, over and over. Decades after they’re all dead, the scent of beer or coffee brewing brings back the past. It’s never over. ...

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