She turns and calls over her shoulder?—
“Maria! You owe me twenty bucks.
“Told you he was hidin’ somethin’.”
She looks back at me.
“House rules:
“don’t bullshit me,
“don’t leave the fridge open,
“and don’t slander Elvis.
“He’s fuckin’ king, capisce?”
Gold hoops. Red nails. Mom voice with a switchblade tucked inside it.
She swings the door open, one brow cocked.
“Get in here, city girl. And lose the boots.”
The heat smacks me as soon as I step in,
then the smell.
Garlic. Sage. Sweet rising out of the oven.
I toe my boots by the door, one at a time.
A kid shrieks from somewhere down the hall.
The sports channel’s blaring,
laughter piercing through it.
It’s cramped. Wood paneling.
Mismatched everything.
Wedding photo.
Andrew’s First Communion.
Andrew’s Graduation.
And it’s warm with leftover memories?—
movie nights, gravy stains,
loud fights ending in hugs.
Late night laughter baked into its walls.
At the corner of my eye,
there’s a fire going in the living room,
