By Yash Seyedbagheri
I wipe down the mahogany table. The cloth squeaks and shrieks. There are still too many little scratches and blemishes. Too much history. A series of zigzagging lines.
My sister, Nan, puts a hand on my shoulder.
“It looks nice, Nicky. But why don’t you take a break? You’ve been cleaning for an hour straight.”
My other sister, Colette, nods.
“You can’t get all the blemishes out, darling.”
I grunt and keep wiping. I have to make this table resplendent. Mom promised she’d join us this year. I know that sounds crazy, and I should grow up, since I’m twenty-six, but still. I think of her crooked grin, the way she doesn’t just walk, but saunters with attitude, making a space all her own. I’m more of a waddler.
Colette’s phone rings. I push the cloth harder and harder. The scratches stare up at me.
“What?” she says. “Again? Really, Mom?”
Words rise, a miasma of incoherence. A buzz.
“Nick’s cleaned things up for you. Did you know that? He’s killing himself for you here. I told him not to bother, but he’s still at it. You should be here for him.”
More words. I think I make out a “sorry.” I can’t tell.
“Why spend it with someone else, Mom? What the hell?”
She hangs up. Slams the phone down on the table, and sighs.
“I’m sorry, Nicky.”
“Why the fuck aren’t I good enough? Why aren’t we good enough for her?”
They both pull me into a hug; I love my sisters, but I miss Mom’s energy, her dirty jokes (especially the one about Hitler working at Costco). I miss her promises; they’re something to cradle, at least.
But at least I feel my sisters’ arms, strong, never wavering, the scents of soap and perfume and Camels and family.
When they let go, I look at where Colette’s slammed the phone down. Another scratch.
* * *
Yash Seyedbagheri (he/him) is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA fiction program. His fiction has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes. Yash’s work has been published in Flow Magazine, Prosetrics The Literary Magazine, and Ariel Chart, among others.