Everybody wanted something, but she couldn’t figure out what she wanted, much less how to get it.
She breathed deliberately, allowing herself to believe she was the right person in the right place. The clouds were the cotton from inside a Tylenol bottle. The moon? A giant analgesic, rolling out of a childproof sky.
Mary raised her arms in sweeping surrender to her imagination, but the garbage bag in her left hand surrendered its contents to the driveway first.
Mary flinched, staring at the banana peel on her pink bunny slipper. She laughed, and found it was easy.
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.