Grace collected the feathers that fell out of her hand-me-down comforter in a “Daiquiri” rum shot glass.
Her mom had started it. Maybe Grace kept on doing it in a halfhearted attempt to connect with the family, as if in picking up and preserving their collective feathers she was performing a service they’d recognize in their individual souls.
Then, at least, she wouldn’t need to speak.
Maybe it was penance for some grievous wrong committed against the collective feather body.
Either way, she wouldn’t have to speak.
She would be accepted. She had already thrown love out of the bargain.