ANDY YE

I’m right outside the car door of our 2012 Honda Odyssey. It is a long, sullen, driveway. On the right a fleet of cypresses stand by, and the left sprawls a slope of greenish, lemony grass. It looks more yellow today. Everything seems to be a bit yellow. The world is humid and blurry to touch. At the tip of the driveway, it curves left, forming a roundabout.

There are no noises today.

I zoned out – my mom’s already ahead of me. I grab my green tote full of music sheets and follow her, dotting my feet three steps behind hers. She is neatly wearing a red sweater, blue jeans. Her hair is dark as night, and her steps are quiet as snow.

The sun is heavy. I am by her side now, my tote is a pendulum. The sound of her steps grows quieter and quieter. Tiptoeing? Hardly, she wouldn’t do that with a weak ankle. Is she even walking? I look over, she’s keeping my pace. I turn forward, we haven’t moved since the start.

“Mom?”

She turns her head. Blank, no face, mannequin. Ball joints that creak and crawl, no skin, just plastic. I stare, her hair falls off. I pull her hand, pleading, tears swell up. The arm hits the floor, rattling as her head creaks north. My breath fractures with the brackish air, though my vision stays clear as day.

There are limbs on the floor.