My father would come back in the still dead of the night and eat eggs— one after another— while
my mother watched in silence. What do you say to someone who has been gone for that long?
Newspapers collecting on the front lawn. Squabbles left unopened like easter foil chocolates. My
sister and I found these badly. Slower than the other children. Afraid we didn’t understand English
well. OK. Go, now. OK. Now you can go.
My sister was sweet and followed me doing things. She had a doll with wondrous skin. The doll was
careful like a honeysuckle and artless like a honeysuckle. I liked to hold her near. She was
closemouthed and did not cry and it pleased me immensely and I was ashamed to be pleased.
Children should never be quiet. Like the quiet daughters we were. We quiet. Our crayons. Quiet.
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From Loves You. Used with permission of Persea Books. Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Gambito.
