(Non)fictions
Sophie Klahr
I am back in the arms of Florida and seeing everywhere, for the first time since she’s died, my
grandmother’s favorite chain store everywhere. I want to buy a little something, like her: leopard print
handbag, leopard print hat. She was a typist, a collector of teapots. For lunch, she always laid out cold
cuts and plastic-y cheese. Above the black vinyl couch, framed prints of red-crowned cranes, her
bedroom always in some gauze-pink light. I try to list what I know she loved: key lime pie, coconut
chocolates, Lifesavers. Whitefish salad. In the last months, on morphine, she recognized me. Her
tongue searched for my name then found it, as if having forgotten that oranges existed she’d suddenly
tasted one. I miss her more dead than I ever did alive. Is that love?
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