Читать книгу Tiny - Mairead Case - Страница 25

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T I N Y

Tiny sees her mother’s cancer. It’s the color of white corn, sequined with bugs and pulsing heat into the air. Tiny sees it living in the box she didn’t watch them shut. She didn’t throw dirt or petals on it either. Tiny misses her mother, but doesn’t have any memories of her face apart from photographs, which feels like carrying around a hole. Sometimes Tiny stares so long at the pictures they start moving.

Her mom died when Tiny was three. That woman’s arms look smooth as moonlight in a cartoon, and soft. Tiny’s look the same, so she squeezes them to understand. She hugs herself as two people at once. When she wishes she could have a conversation with her mom, Tiny looks for flowers or eats a bowl of grapes. Any color. She doesn’t know why. For a while, Tiny thought her mom communicated through Motown on the radio. Missing someone is hard, always, but the details change. Sometimes it’s a spiral. Sometimes a shawl.