Memories of You
I hand the album to Mama, five years of photographs my sister Nancy and I assembled. I’m seventeen, Nancy twenty-one.
Five years of things Mama missed. I don’t know what I wanted. Love? Explanation?
She smiles, a crooked smile.
“You’ve grown so. Thank you, Nicholas.”
“Nick is the preferred nomenclature.”
“But I can’t have clutter. Take this, please.”
She gives me a look, sea-blue eyes sorrowful.
“Too many expectations.”
Nan and I are living history, discarded. No niche. I grab the album, hurl it, let loose the weight of senseless dreams.
I feel good and like the worst person.