SmokeLong Quarterly

The veranda doors are open for the breeze. Outside the Trinidadian night is spangled like navy tulle. On the bed, I sprawl, my head heavy as hibiscus, watching Mother zip into another sequined gown. She stands before her dressing table where a silver brush, little pots of cream and rosy colors are assembled beside a row of crystal bottles. Her long fingers dab Joy to the inside of her wrists. I breathe the perfume in—down to my core. It makes rain on my insides. I giggle, kick my legs, squeeze eyes shut against the onslaught. “Are you being silly?” she asks, her black eyes catch mine in the mirror where she is now two mothers, front and back. She presses red lips to a tissue. I tumble to the floor, too small, assaulted, undone.