Some days you sat on the dresser. You could make yourself small as perfume and lipstick tubes. You could touch all the things I couldn’t. I watched you slink through my mother’s jewelry box, grow big as me and drape yourself in rhinestones. You would gather up bracelets and bangle them up your wrists. You would slide a ring on your finger. It was the ring my father gave my mother before he left. The time I wore the ring and I showed it to my mother and she pulled it right off my hand. But when you wore the ring, you got to wear it all day. She could’t see you. That was the luckiest part of you.

Pin It on Pinterest