I know she can’t play our game now, but I lean down anyway and blink at her like we did at the sanatorium when her throat got too sore for her to talk. She’s wearing her dark green dress with covered buttons. So I drag it out, stand on top, and look into the creamy box with thick silver handles that has Mama inside. I reach under the curtain and pull the stool into my playhouse. Just the three of us at home together until the doorbell chimes and Daddy turns and walks away. Daddy takes a deep breath and holds it forever. The shiny toes of his black boots are so close I smell shoe polish. They stop right on the other side of the curtain. His footsteps scrape across the rug toward Mama and me. That’s why I’m wearing my scratchy church dress with the purple bows. They moved all the furniture against the walls except a little round stool right by the coffin box, so even short people can see Mama this afternoon. My little house in the center of the parlor has silky black curtain walls and a hard ceiling that I can touch with the top of my head if I sit cross-legged and stretch my neck.
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