Christine Stewart-Nuñez

I wore Grandma Liz's pearls for play, a plastic strand long enough to pool on the carpet over my stubbed toes. When I pull them over my head now, I smell phantoms: cigarettes, Esteé Lauder. I don't smoke or spritz on perfume. I don't layer polyester or perm my hair. I've slipped off my wedding ring as she did, signed divorce. What advice would she offer for life between husbands?Wear red lipstick and always leave it behind.

Through the bedroom window a February sunrise, fog suspended between pines. Intricate crystals— hoarfrost lace on a cherry tree. My son calls out, awake. We sway, blanket-wrapped, his head nuzzling my neck. Hoarfrost, tree—I point, shaping each word. Favorable conditions: a toddler’s brain, hard data-mining, a system’s approach. Hoar, he hears. His hand reaches to the wallpaper lion. Phenomena converge: warmth, humidity, temperature’s sudden plunge; a child’s brain, objects, sound. Eyes widening, he opens his mouth and roars.

At IHOP, after the skinny brunette with a band-aid covering her hickey comes to whisk away burnt toast, Mom mentions Theresa, face brightening. She had a dream about her—80s flip hair, smooth complexion. I’ve been living in Tulsa for eighteen years, Theresa said. I understand. Even as I watched men lower her casket, I fantasized the witness protection program had resettled her. How funny we look, mother and daughter laughing over scrambled eggs, tears dripping onto bacon, hands hugging coffee mugs. For a moment Mom felt Theresa there. Such faith. Freshen your cup? the waitress asks me, poised to pour. Cloudy in the cold coffee, my reflection. I offer the mug.