David, Greece discussed on The Paris Review


The month after our mother died our father began bringing women home it felt like a behind back kind of operation I'm going to have Guest tonight is what he would say David and I stayed out in the living room turned up cartoons burned toast kicked our feet up over our head kids I worked long division at some point woman would emerge to drink a glass of water or fix her hair in the kitchen windows dark reflection the guests left behind is of lipstick and gold tubes and leftover food paper pouches of cold French fries chicken legs and clam Shell Styrofoam boxes they left tampons. blooming through toilet paper in the trash can like tiny mice they'd killed the cotton tells pink with blood I guess when you think about it everything we do is behind the backs of the dead I imagine the doctors had removed my mother's sick breasts in one clean cut still lovely things I could slip into a broad strapped to my chest I didn't want the illness just the shape if my mother's body could no longer be my mother's maybe it could be mine I didn't tell the grief counselor this because she would have said it was normal so this was her favorite word it made me want to flush the toilet three times it made me want to take pictures of Greece off the walls of her dim office and them home and give them as gifts to dad's guests it's not normal to lose your mother when you're eleven.

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