What's Mine and Yours

by Naima Coster

They had laughed, as if Robbie hadn’t nearly drowned. His mouth was already open when Lacey May tilted him back onto the grass. The earth stuck to their wet skin; there were ants. They went on kissing for a long time. Robbie had a gummy, hot sensation in his shorts, a lightness in his head. It was the best he’d ever felt, and the best he would ever feel, until he had cocaine.

Losing a parent was like losing a part of yourself, even if it was a part you’d rather forget.

“It’s only our life if we say so. Otherwise it belongs to them.”

“If they’re going to look at you, then you’ve got to give them something to look at.”

To be a mother was like this: to fight desperately to hold on to yourself most days, to struggle against the snare of your child, to focus on his future instead of your own. And then, suddenly, to feel bowled over by your love for him, to feel his breath is your breath, your music his music, and you are the same. It was a sensation she hadn’t had in a long time. She let the feeling fill her.

He was in the parlor, sitting cross-legged in an armchair,

“All the time, baby sister. And one day, I know, you’re going to surprise us all with all the secrets you’ve been keeping.”

Because you asked me

He was drowning, and they were water. He struggled, until all went dark.

He sent her missives and hoped that she could hear. You are beautiful, he said, and I want you. Forever, he said. I am yours.