If we went across the country, we could put the dogs in the truck and they could look at cars passing by and be themselves in the beautiful wind, leap out for deserts and mountains, and chase what they can’t ever catch.
Cake and Cheetos and triumph at my table, little bites and big ones, my mink out of storage wrapped around twice, maybe the white gloves folded for so long in the drawer, I leave the elegant crumbs strewn for others to sweep.
I strive to be ninety-six, to do the math in my head, adding my time as a child to my time as a mother, subtracting fruitless days and multiplying joyous ones, forgetting nothing, regretting less, holding my beautiful luck in my hands.
My dad handled everything smoking a cigarette, later a cigar clenched in his teeth. He fixed things with a blowtorch, kept screws in peanut butter jars. When he wasn’t fixing things, he took my mother to the hospital and played the piano.