She’s creaming butter and sugar. I’m at her feet with my Legos. She looks down and smiles. Who’s winning now, Greg?
I hate Greg. He calls Mom every day. Her voice sounds yucky when she talks to him, like too much syrup on pancakes.
The phone rings. She whispers something into it and walks away, playing with her hair.
I stand on my toes and tilt the powdered sugar bag. But she doesn’t look back.
The ashes fall lightly on me.
