My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
My hands were cool, and my left thumb kept turning the silver band on my opposite hand, the metal sliding easily over the joint.
I reached back into the closet and lifted out the first photo album, its cover made of cracked blue vinyl that had turned sticky with age.
The gold lettering on the spine had rubbed off years ago, leaving only a dull, grey shadow where the title used to be.
I sat on the floor with my knees tucked against my chest, laying the album across my lap and lifting the first heavy page.
The plastic sheet peeled back with a sound like dry brush dragging across gravel, releasing the sharp, vinegar smell of old emulsion.
A small, square photograph from the summer I turned twelve showed my mother standing beside the silver colonial sedan on Pine Lane.
She was wearing a white linen blouse, her hair pinned back in a tight, neat bun that showed the sharp line of her jaw.
Her hand was resting on the driver’s side door, her fingers curled slightly as if she were about to open it, though she was looking directly at the camera.
