by Killarney Clary
Her brother pokes at her for the picture. Sunlight throbs in his yellow hair. Pale, thin boy-body in stiff shorts folds itself into a box and steps free, six times for his father’s project. The baby will not smile. Cousins flap their hands, bump around.
The past runs silent on a loop. The ugly pin Daddy bought for Mama is locked in my case, the figurine with its various stories, dusted and treasured for the version I prefer: clumsy and wild, he brought it across Germany on a bicycle in 1938 to give to her.
I give you her silver monkey ring, its belly an opal – another gift she did not like. She kept it throughout her forever. Keep the lie. It is good. I will keep the story I grew up with. How long will I press your hand when it doesn’t press back?