he found me there summer seven,
undressing into a sequined slip from ‘30; left me big red bites
like the bees outside.
my childhood broken, into quarters in slots of gashapons.
out would pop a christmas, easter, fourth, thanksgiving–
and with it we’d drop to grandma’s again. we feasted like
kings, juice in wine glasses (which oft were broken) and
rugelach caressed with cinnamon before we went out to play.
in summer six, the bees tried to kiss us and I would have none
of it; stumbled into new lands. basements are haunting but
grandma’s was soulful: a mirror here, a crumbly beanbag there,
a chest of her old flapper wear. he found me there summer seven,
undressing into a sequined slip from ‘30; left me big red bites
like the bees outside. fall seven, he told me there was a puppy in the
basement but he pet me instead; left me tickled like when a leaf
brushes your face. winter seven was frozen, like his touch was; left me
numb as hands get in packing snowballs without gloves. spring eight
was blossoming and silent and so was I, feather boa to mouth:
left me raw like I’d never felt before. fall eight I threw up
rugelach and I saw my mother’s face crumble when she
looked in the mirror facing him. winter eight my mother
stopped crying, until I asked her why we never went to
grandma’s again. only wanted to see her smile
and to taste rugelach again.
Cleopatra Lim lives in Tenafly, New Jersey and attends Columbia University in NYC. Born in Seoul, South Korea, she loves English and has ever since she came to America. Some of her favorite authors include Khaled Hosseini and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Writing in a dark room in the late night tops her list of favorite pastimes. She is interested in pursing a career in creative writing and media.