White Oleander

by Janet Fitch

The cake had a trick candle that wouldn’t go out, so I didn’t get my wish. Which was just that it would always be like this, that my life could be a party just for me.

My father, that silhouette, a form comprised of all I did not know, a shape filled with rain.

“I’m a fish swimming by, Ray,” I whispered into his neck. “Catch me if you want me.”

My mother loved me. Even now, I could feel myself rocking in that hammock while Eduardo and my mother danced. You were my home.

You were my home, Mother. I had no home but you.

The best you’ll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.

You know the mistrust of heights is the mistrust of self, you don’t know whether you’re going to jump.

One can bear anything. The pain we cannot bear will kill us outright. Mother.

They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers’ braille.

Don’t hoard the past, Astrid. Don’t cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.

I would always know what time it was in California.