When Christmas shows up, first one without you, we leave your chair empty.
Which is great, because I actually like him better this way. A dog isn’t likely to run off with your best friend, and come back six months later, panting for forgiveness.
“I have decided to become a Scorpio,” my Taurus mama says. “Scorpios,” she whispers, “are lucky in love.”
It’s Christmas but there’s the itch in her. A heart itch, she calls it. It started when Harry stopped calling. And that was forever ago.
“It’s there. I can see it,” she says. She is all floaty wings and bathing cap as she stands on the shore line. The salty lip of the surf at her feet.
Uncle Astor had a wedding cake farm. Aunt Lula was against it at first. Folks don’t want a cake from out of the ground, she said. But Uncle Astor proved her wrong.
Mildred never cared much for them. Says they are too much like men, and you can’t always smell the poison.