These Toxic Things

by Rachel Howzell Hall

As a digital archaeologist, I transform a client’s memories into Memories™. Pictures, letters—all scanned, photographed, captioned, and narrated—then uploaded into a voice-controlled box with an eight-inch screen and speakers.

“Because in a relationship,” Mom said, taking the scenic route, “there can only be one flower and one gardener. You, Michaela Lambert, are the flower. Not that fucker.”

Nadia Denham. An elegant name that evokes lovers and dances, spiced teas in fragile cups, and secrets, lots of secrets. Old ladies keep the best secrets.

I store that kiss in my soul’s medicine cabinet. Like before, it will heal any future hurts.

“That shouldn’t matter to you and what you need to do. Breathe, Mick. Focus.” “There’s police tape blocking the doors,” I say, not breathing, not focusing.