Mirror Image

At the house next to my grandmother's no trees bloomed in the yard. Two maids worked in the cloistered rooms, stirring batters, folding linens, pouring ice water. An olive Mercedes cooled in the driveway most nights when the father stumbled home at twilight, rum distilled in the sweat coming through his pores. I dressed dolls with the daughter on her porch. We wandered to the parlor, shared Chiclets on the floor, watched television in a flowered room. I answered the father's questions softly and was careful not to disturb him if he slumped into sleep. Once while waiting for a movie to begin, he asked which of my parents I loved more. I swirled a caramel candy with my tongue, saving butterscotch in my palm. One choice would be wrong. "Qui est-ce?" he persisted and I chose my mother. My father I saw while he slept, when he took my hand, paraded me on Dimanche Pâques. My mother kissed me awake. Her absence I felt more.