Fourth Month

Red fingers grab a napkin to dab at red lips. A man in a tight black tee walks past me. His gait is faster than mine. A clear green cup spins and spins on a metal table. I hear childish songs. My legs are warm but my arms feel cold. I walk down a sidewalk. My hands rest in the pockets of my hooded sweatshirt. The bodies of dried worms slide across the pavement as I walk. The coiled bodies leave smeared stains like rust on the white cement. The next rainfall will clean the sidewalk. Living worms will surface. I was young—three or four, probably five years old—and I cut a worm in half with a garden hoe. The two halves wriggled separately and I smiled. I felt bad when they stopped wriggling. I returned the hoe to the shed and opened the door to my house.