The fire department was in our yard. I had let a fire go too far — a grass fire. The yard was still thick with smoke. Flames were still trying to circle out from the black swath they had already claimed.
I had been ignoring my mother’s phone calls. I finally relented.
Her cousin’s daughter had been shot in the head. I had just sent her a baby gift: muslin blankets, a turtle night-light. Her baby son was also in the car; her father was also in the car. They were okay. She was not.
I had a baby son inside my womb then. I think of her often. She should be here, too. She should be here mothering, too.