101 Words

The woman approached the café, determined to make her feelings known. She stopped and eyed a young man seated alone at an outdoor table; the blackboard reading:

café latte
cappuccino
flat white
long black
espresso
espresso Romano
mocha
macchiato

She walked away. Was she the only one harbouring this pain? Were there others? How could this even be happening?

No, no, this couldn’t continue. She turned and headed straight back to the café.

The young man had gone. It was now or never. She whipped some tissue paper from her pocket and wiped the board clean. In chalk, she simply wrote—COFFEE.

Blood. Steams. Traffic stopped. My daughter’s trike. Her shape under a sheet.

Later, TV reporters dissected my only child’s death. The press attributed my Hope’s death to a bad intersection; crash detectives agreed. The man who crushed all my future days in that crosswalk was never charged, but that didn’t absolve him from blame.

Daily, I brought M&M’s to her grave. My tears thawed cold Maryland clay. I pressed each candy into sticky mud.

The man surrendered his license, walked to bars.

Shadowing him, I weakened my brakes.

Later, reporters dissected his uncanny death.

The same intersection.

How strange.

Curse?

Accident.

He takes sugar, she—no milk. His flat white seems to taste ten times bitter. He glances at her face being steamed by the hot brew under her chin, her cheeks a shade of perylene red. She’s staring at an Amigurumi doll on the table across theirs. She remembers making one—some time ago. She gave it away because it’d brought mists in her eyes. Among other things. He remembers scooping the leftover memories and burying them. Deep in the ground like their son. Perhaps in the next anniversary drink she’d have some sugar, he a dash of milk.

From the sidewalk looking up the slope to the massive oak tree you saw a picnic basket and a girl with her back resting against the trunk of the tree.

Her head was tilted to the left and seemed to be falling away from her shoulders.

She wore the uniform of captain of the girls varsity cheerleading squad, complete with standard saddle shoes.

She dressed that morning for him since his remark that he always wanted to date a cheerleader.

What you could not see from your sidewalk view was the needle in her arm.

She would understand him not coming.

Ann’s father parked the car and took the phone out of her hands. “Good luck with your interview.”

Rolling her eyes, Ann stepped out of the car and walked inside. The manager was waiting at a table and waved her over.

“Good morning, Ann. You’re my first interview for the day. It’s nice to meet you.” Joyce glanced at the application. “Tell me, why would you like to work here?”

Ann’s eyes flashed toward the door and her confiscated phone. “My dad is making me get a job.”

Joyce blinked twice, and then smiled falsely. “We’ll call if we need you.”

“No!” She tossed her blonde hair and marched angrily away, the clop clop of heels on wood telegraphing her fury.

You’d think I’d asked her to torture puppies or renounce chocolate forever, when I had simply suggested—very kindly—that she change into something slightly less revealing for dinner with my boss and her husband. And perhaps remove a bit of the lipstick and eye shadow she must have applied with a spackling trowel.

“Honey,” I said, tapping tentatively. The response was a thunk as an unknown object (shoe? hairbrush?) struck the bedroom door.

Such is life when mothering a three-year-old!