He was visiting. An odd word to describe coming home. We were preparing to go for a walk.
Standing in the middle of an enormous foyer, I struggled to zip up my brown corduroy coat. The hood’s white fur lining making me an Eskimo. The zipper was a challenge to chubby, three year old hands. Angry hands. Hands that didn’t want to be stuffed into pom-pomed mittens. Hands that didn’t want to hold a stranger’s hand.
“Hey little bit, let me help you with that.” His voice boomed in our lady house.
“No. I can do it.” I turned away. I wouldn’t cry for him.
Zip please zip please zip please zip please
She floated down the grand staircase, a movie star in boudoir clothes. I could smell her before she rounded the bend at the landing. I looked into her face. Into the smile my presence couldn’t paint. His smile. “Help me?” I asked her.
He grabbed me, and harshly zipped up my coat. He held my wrist and took me for that walk god damn it let your mother rest.
And I was too little to know they were trying. To angry to feel the love.
“You killed the Eskimo.” I said.