I remember the boom of my dad’s voice then the rawness of my mom yelling back. Then she moved through the kitchen, her heels clumping across the floor in an angry toddler walk I inherited. With a slam of the screen door she is sitting on our back steps. Her bare feet on the concrete ground below, she rests her elbows on her knees. I sit next to her. I can’t see her face through her long stringy hair, not yet peppered gray.
She is crying.
I look at my small dirty feet.
She lifts her face and stares forward to hold a cigarette to her mouth. I see hair stuck to her wet cheeks. She lowers her face and releases the smoke into the cool night.
I wish she wouldn’t cry.
In her hand is a toy from her childhood, a black stuffed cat. Its material is worn thin, the button eyes don’t match and only half of the red stitched mouth remains.
The recent and fatal blow to the stuffed animal is a tear caused by our dog Bark, a stray we recently took in. I gently take the torn kitten from her and turn it in my hands.
She blows smoke into the air.
Through the rip in its body pour the scraps of old repairs, guts of nylon stockings, pieces of T-shirt and stuffing. Repairs her mom made when she was the little girl.
“Don’t cry mommy, we can fix it,” I assure her.
She stares forward, I hear the quiet crackle as she pulls her air through the cigarette.
I’m worried I can’t fix it.