Now I was twenty-two.
Seventeen years had passed, and apparently the only thing that had changed was which room my sister wanted.
Mom pushed the bags against my chest.
“Clothes, toiletries, personal things.
Don’t make a production of it.”
Her perfume reached me first.
Sharp flowers over something sweet.
I remembered that smell.
For years after they left, I had followed women through grocery stores because they wore something close to it.
“You’re moving in?”
I asked.
Dad stopped directing the movers.
“Well, somebody has to take responsibility.”
I looked at the black wreath.
At the mud still drying on my shoes from the cemetery.
“Grandpa died on Thursday.”
“And we’re all upset,” Mom said impatiently.
“But being upset doesn’t suspend reality.”
Upstairs, a door opened.
Chloe called down, “Does this furniture have to stay?”
Dad glanced at one of the movers.
“Start with the bedroom.”
