From this distance, I am a scream away from touching you. From here, inside my car, my fingers tingle from the want; it’s been so long. Your auburn hair throws back portions of the sun as you herd my grandchildren into your car. Do they smell like you did—that earthy mix of salt and sunflower? With a cell-phone pinned to your ear as you back down your crunchy, pebble driveway, you are a vision of efficacy. I know better. I see your fear, your rage, your ache, wrapped around your body—it’s not the cashmere that keeps you warm.

After you left home, your father forbade me to see you. All those years I fed the blender my unsent letters. My prayers I lit on fire, hoping the ashes would reach you. He erased as many traces of you as he could, but he never found the photos, the hair bent in a curl, the tiny pearl of a tooth. These I hid in my womb, hoping to give birth to you again.

You’ve left your shades open. I wish I could tell you I like the painting I see above your sofa. I’ve always loved that shade of blue. Remember when I painted your room that color? You slipped feathery kisses on my hand and swirled around, laughing.

You said, “I live in the ocean now.”

That whole summer you kept whispering to me, “I’m drowning, Mommy,” but I blew your whispers away on the wind.

Someone has used the sidewalk in front of your house as a canvas. I remember the pink and purple stars you drew on our cement walkway. You danced them around a fat yellow sun and told me the stars must be careful not to tell or else the sun will eat them. I laughed, but my left pinky twitched.

Understand I almost believed him when he said he was checking on you, tucking you in. I imagined him leaning over to capture your individual breaths in a jar like fireflies. And when he didn’t come to bed, I told myself the fireflies escaped and he had to gather them. I told myself he stood guard at your bed all the while suspecting he was the dragon. Understand I loved him too much to slay him.

Last spring, I wanted to send you a picture: the one of you riding the circus pony. You laughed so hard your cowboy hat slid down your back. After I kissed your face, I slid the photo in an envelope, but instead of mailing it, I melted it and injected the swirls of color into my vein.

I eat a piece of myself every day. Both of my feet and my left hand are nearly gone. On the seat next to me is your father’s heart, wrapped in foil. I’ll leave the dragon at your door. .

§ § §

Katrina Denza lives in beautiful North Carolina with her husband, two sons and two zany cats. Her stories have been published or are forthcoming in Gertrude: A Journal of Voice and Vision and Words of Wisdom.

This piece was first published in INK POT #3 - 2004, a literary journal.