Home Is Where the Bodies Are

by Jeneva Rose

I know I’ll never hear her say it again—my name, the one she gave me. I wish I could reach out and grab it, stow it away in a safe place, like some sort of family heirloom. But it belongs to this moment. Like her, it’s not something I can keep forever.

“Hi, Mom,” I say. I’m trying to say Mom as many times as I possibly can because I know I’ll never call another person that again. It’s reserved only for her. There is no replacement.

I guess you can only grow so much when you’re stuck in the same place—like a house plant that’s never been repotted.