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Some days, I hide in the attic and look at photographs on sticky yellow paper. In one my mother is the queen of pink pearls. In another my grandmother is a bride in gray. In another I have a milk smile. I am sitting on pretty pink bricks. So is someone else.
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My dream life at age twelve: I have long soft light hair and a circle of flowers I can hide in whenever I want. My hands stay clean in the garden. I can feel my blood inside me, warm.
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It is a nice day. I see flowers. There are birds in their bath. There is a hand on my knee. The camera flashes.
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I don’t remember yellow curtains. I don’t remember sunlight coming through yellow curtains in the downstairs bedroom where I wasn’t supposed to go alone. I remember waiting in the garden for my grandfather to come. My white shoes stand on bare grass and on my sharp green shadow. My hands hold each other. He’s coming down the steps.
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He has a crumpled face, so I can’t see his eyes. He holds a can of ginger ale. He gives me a five dollar bill I say I don’t want but he tells me to take it, so I do. Abraham Lincoln has a crumpled face. I put it in my pocket. My grandfather holds my hand.
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For a moment I see only white. The next thing I see are blackbirds flying away. I think of a nursery.
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If my hands get dirty in the garden it feels okay. I take off my shoes. The shadows of plants break my face into pieces.
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When I come downstairs everyone is smiling. There are balloons and candles. I see yellow curtains. My grandfather is long dead. Happy birthday.
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