Bone Memory

As Alfonsina washed the lettuce, Alex, the older of the two boys, ran into

the kitchen and spun around on the barstool a few times making gargoyle noises. Mrs.

Barker put down her coupons and entered the kitchen, catching his spin. “Don’t want

you falling.” She kissed the back of his head but he squirmed out of her grip.

“I never fall, mom,” the boy said as he climbed the living room couch. Mrs.

Barker gave a faint embarrassed smile and then began organizing the magnets on the

fridge. A big boned woman, she looked like a lioness in soggy pajamas. She had a head

full of wild yellow curls, little snakes that her kids had inherited, and wore loose fitting

pink drawstring sweats with a matching pink long-sleeved shirt. Alfonsina thought

about how American women let themselves go, in the name of soft loose materials and

home-style comfort. Mrs. Barker concentrated, as her kids made dramatic gestures in

the background, on the magnet letters she could spiral into different words: M A R B L

E S. B L A S T. A W A Y.

“Yanni, tell the boys to calm down.”

“They did their homework,” Mr. Barker yelled from the adjacent office. He was

reading his New Yorker , under the dim light of a retro 1920s lamp that Alfonsina

recognized because it looked like one her father had in Argentina. She had brought him

a cup of tea earlier in the evening and noticed him staring at the corner, then his

bookshelf, then out the window, nodding with a bright smile, as if he had invisible

friends in there.

Majo Molfino / 1

She was fifty-nine, probably fifteen years their senior, with steel colored hair

that had white streaks on each side. Her complexion was translucent which she treated

by blending red lipstick from her lips onto her cheekbones, a poor woman’s trick from

her mother. The skin around her lips and eyes shattered into a dozen small lines from

years of tanning and smoking in her youth. She wore a black fitted sweater dress, made

of a modal cotton blend, that was cut right above her knees and paired with thin but

opaque black stockings. She had at least six pairs of the same stockings torn in various

places, but she couldn’t find the opaqueness and price point of this specific brand

anywhere else. It was her favorite winter uniform, black on black, which allowed her to

recede into the background while still giving off an air of reliability, even a bit of

European artistry.

While chopping the lettuce, she watched Alex make a careful tower of couch

pillows then kick it over. “You’re from here?” Alfonsina asked when Mrs. Barker

plopped down onto the barstool.

“No, we’re from the West coast. California. That’s where we met. But we came

out here for the water quality.” She rested her face into her right palm. Her nails had

dirt under them. She turned again to watch the boys, their colorful socks flinging across

the room. Thierry was craddling his tablet in the corner, the back of it plastered with

stickers of guns, bones, and even the silhouette of a busty woman.

“Boys were born and raised here in New York.”

“I’m starving,” Thierry announced.

“Well go get Yanni then.”

Majo Molfino / 2

Yanni was short for Yannique, Mr. Barker’s first name. The boy brought his

father over by the hand, who was still engrossed by what he was reading. Both boys

were encircling him now, asking dozens of questions and talking over each other, but

he did not seem to hear them for he did not express irritation or interest, or react in any

way to their questions. He wore a white collared shirt tucked into tight fitting jeans for

his long legs and small waist. The jeans were held up by a thin brown leather belt with

small African symbols on them. He was at least six foot two, with giant starfish hands,

his bald head shining under the overhead kitchen lights. He had a grey and white

goatee that looked like morning frost and wore John Lennon style reading glasses,

which were tied to a chord of black, green, and yellow beads. His resting face always

showed some teeth, clearly a mouth breather.

“Mr. Barker?” Alfonsina started.

“Call me Yanni.”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m a freelance writer.”

“Independent?”

“Exactly.”

“What do you write about?”

“I go around to new restaurants, African, Middle Eastern, South Asian cuisine

and I criticize what they make.” He winked, “But don’t worry, I know nothing about

Argentinean cuisine. No te preocupes !”

“It’s very similar to Italian. But more meat.”

Majo Molfino / 3

“We mentioned we were vegetarian, right?” Mrs. Barker asked.

Alfonsina nodded. That left her with very few options in her repertoire and a lot

of carbs: quiches, pastas, pizzas, breads, salads, vegetable stews. She’d have to branch

out for more protein options.

“I’m not veg. That would make my job impossible,” said Yanni.

“At home you are.” Mrs. Barker raised her eyebrows.

“Yes, yes.”

“How about you Mrs. Barker?” asked Alfonsina.

“It’s Chloe.” She flashed a quick smile. “I’m a music teacher. College level. Shall

we set the table?” She pressed her body up as if it weighed two hundred pounds.

“Mom,” Thierry yelled. He stomped over to the entrance. “Look!”

The door had swung open and an icy gust of wind blasted the duplex.

“It’s freezing!” Alex shrieked, and wrapped his arms around his torso. The wind

carried the red hue of the neighbour’s early Christmas lights, flooding the hallway with

a blood color.

“Maybe ghosts?” said Alfonsina. She glared at the boys, hoping this suggestion

might tame them for a while. They shrunk away from her and then grinned at each

other. As soon as she spoke, the wind whistled through and blew the mail off the bench

in the entrance. And then the door slammed suddenly. The boys eyed the door again to

see what it would do next. They loved ghost stories, Chloe explained. But she didn’t

want them to get nightmares.

Majo Molfino / 4

Alfonsina dressed the salad the way she had for many years: salt, pepper, olive

oil, and balsamic vinegar on lettuce, tomato, onions and hearts of palms. Chloe picked

up the mail which had scattered on the floor, and knitted her eyebrows as she began to

make three piles.

Thierry snuck up behind her, “Where’s my mail?”

“This is boring adult stuff, sweety.”

“But I want.”

She turned to him, “Would you rather pay the bills or play with your brother?”

“Bills. Bills. Bills.” He jumped up and down.

“That’s it,” said Yanni, circling a sentence with his pen. “That’s the future of

food systems.”

The table came together at the small hands of Alex, who placed the utensils in

an “x” shape on each plate. Alfonsina came by and curled white linens into the glasses,

and then added a bouquet of ranunculi she had picked up on the way over from

Manhattan. They were a boysenberry color, accompanied with red berries and green

foliage all around. When she brought the flowers down, Alex cleared away the platters

and drinks to make room.

“I’ve never seen flowers like that.” He leaned his right eyeball close to the purple

petals.

Thierry was back. “Maybe she grew them.”

“Not around here she can’t, stupid.”

Majo Molfino / 5

“Ah, mon gars ,” said Yanni, eyeing Alex above his spectacles. He turned to

Alfonsina. “In the city, you know, we rarely see such…” He searched his mind for a

word.

“I couldn’t resist their charm,” Alfonsina said. “The city parks make me sad

these days even though I’m a city girl.”

“Why?” asked Thierry, swiping his index finger across the screen of his tablet.

Chloe walked in. “Because there’s no green anywhere.”

She had changed into a pair of jeans and a fisherman’s sweater. Alfonsina was

amused to see she had painted her lips with the faintest pink lip gloss. A pair of

geometric wooden earrings dangled just above her broad shoulders. But she was still

wearing her dirty grey terry cloth slippers, which mopped up the floor’s hair and dust

mites.

The boys shuffled into their chairs and pretended they were in a rocket ship,

counting down the seconds until Alfonsina placed a slice of quiche onto their plates.

Yanni seemed transfixed on an idea, which he scribbled in the margins of the

magazine.

“It’s chilly, isn’t it?” Chloe asked, blowing into her closed fists. “I wish we had

better insulation.”

“Insulation,” said Yanni, “is something worth innovating.”

“Did you order that extra space heater?”

“Ah, shoot. No, darn it.”

“It’s okay.”

Majo Molfino / 6

“Shall we take the one from my office?”

“It’s nothing.” She bent down to smell the flowers. “Are you married?” She asked

Alfonsina as she sat down. “Oh, and please pass the salad.” She tonged two or three

pieces of lettuce onto her plate.

“I divorced many years ago.”

“I see.”

“Alfonsina,” said Yanni. “Such a beautiful name.”

“Thank you. My father loved poetry. And women. So he named me after

Alfonsina Storni.”

“Oh yes. I am familiar with her work.”

“Really? Wow.”

“Poetry class on Latin American poets, she was one of the only women. In fact!”

Yanni sprung up from his seat and rushed to his office. He brought out a small pocket

sized book. A woman lying in a field of flowers was on the cover.

“Will you read us a verse in Spanish?”

“Oh, no. I can’t.”

“You must!”

“Poetry isn’t my speciality. I just can’t understand it.”

“That’s why I turned to sound,” said Chloe.

“So, what is your speciality Alfonsina?” Yanni enunciated her name slowly.

“Movement.”

“Tango?” He asked.

Majo Molfino / 7

She nodded. “And other kinds too, but tango of course, was my main focus for

many years. I taught in hospitals before coming here.”

“Hospitals?” asked Chloe.

“Older couples with spinal and joint injuries, for their bones, you know.”

“What a nice idea,” said Yanni, leaning back into his chair.

“It worked sometimes,” Alfonsina shrugged.

“Curious,” Chloe sat up and adjusted her earrings, as if to check they were still

on. “Besides their bones, what other changes did you see?”

“Like mental?”

“Yah, or, like...between them.”

Yanni looked at her, “What do you mean?”

“I’m just wondering whether dancing helped them in other ways. I don’t know.”

She stood up and poured Alfonsina some wine, then Yanni, and then finished the bottle

on herself. “All gone!” They watched the last red droplets drip into her glass.

“I’m happy to share.”

“Mmm, okay.” Chloe served herself a thin sliver of quiche. “I’m interested in

this, by the way, because of the applications of music in therapy. Sometimes, I see this

happens with some of my students. But of course, dance is different. It’s so…”

“Dynamic?” asked Yanni.

“Relational,” Alfonsina said. She had waited for them to all serve themselves

twice before getting her first portion.

“Yes, that’s it. It’s intimate.”

Majo Molfino / 8

“Especially tango. There was this one couple. He had very bad arthritis in his

hands, and she was borderline Alzheimer's. Not a very bad case, but getting close.

Actually, a pretty bad case.”

“Could she remember her family?” asked Chloe.

“Sometimes. Sometimes she would be surprised and a bit scared. Like, who is

this man? They had been married fifty two years.”

“I can’t imagine,” said Chloe as she sipped her wine.

“The memory loss or the marriage?” asked Yanni jokingly.

Chloe laughed and shook her head. “So, did she remember as they danced?”

“Well, there’s body memory. Her body would remember the steps we learned in

the last session, but she had no idea where she was or who she was dancing with.”

“That’s cool,” said Alex, as he poked the quiche on its side. She hoped he liked it

and thought to bring ketchup out. Kids love anything with ketchup on it.

“So, she would remember?” asked Chloe.

“Not all the time.” Alfonsina hesitated. She felt a bit strange revealing about this

couple even though they were anonymous, maybe dead now. It was their private

moment she had silently witnessed. She had receded, invisible, and set them into

motion. That’s all.

“Even for a moment, must have been worth something,” Chloe said.

“Maybe.”

Alfonsina had stumbled into the job when visiting her sister in the hospital,

looking for a distraction, wandering the wings into the Neurology unit where she saw

Majo Molfino / 9

the old couples huddled together, offering each other mints, reading pamphlets, and

staring at the cubic TV perched in the upper corner of the ceiling. It seemed that

watching the news only agitated them, made them huff and puff over the country’s

politicians. They were nearly double her age at the time, and clung to each other like

ornaments on a Christmas tree. Men usually wore blue or grey trousers with shirts that

had big floppy collars. The women had purses as deep and wide as pharmacies.

Together, they waited in the hot waiting room, with long dull faces, speckled with

sweat. She never imagined she would tango with any of them. She had competed

professionally for so many years and won several awards. She had dreamed of

International tours, of dancing in Europe or even exotic places where tourists would be

surprised and delighted to find tango, like Indonesia, or Hong Kong. She was trained by

the best academy and finest teachers. For most of her childhood, dance was all

consuming, burning up any interest in reading, writing, or mathematics. In the years

leading up to her sister’s death, she had tasted most forms of movement, and was

confident she could be led by any partner in ballet, modern, salsa, swing, foxtrot, not to

mention more erotic forms of movement, reserved for certain private venues in Buenos

Aires. Now it was only tango that remained. And even now, it had been a few years

since she gave herself fully to a partner, to dance in a way that leaves might scuttle

across pavement, in a brainless way. She was getting older, way past her menopause.

She feared the families who hired her might know that she was far from any cook or

cleaner. That she was doing it for the money, mostly anyway. She had stopped dancing

after her younger sister, at the age of thirty five, got lung cancer. She stopped to help

Majo Molfino / 10

her sister’s husband and four children. Teaching at the hospital let her see her sister,

while numbing out the long days under fluorescent lights, humid walls, the expressions

of people trying their best to cheat what was coming for them. In the end, her sister

passed while the whole family watched, her surgery only a kind of temporary fix – and

there were the kids to take care of, the house left behind, the piles of administrative

work her brother in law couldn’t do, nor her parents, all stricken down by grief. They

each aged ten years that year, their eyes hollowing out. She wrapped up her

commitments at the hospital and focused on her sister’s kids. On the last day in, the

couples had pulled together some money to buy her rare flowers, deep purple. They

hugged her as if they had lost their own child, and she found herself consoling them,

telling them to keep dancing, telling them to send kisses to their children.

She wiped her mouth with the linen napkin, and noticed the red mark on white.

For a moment, she thought she had been bleeding and then remembered she was

wearing lipstick. She would have to excuse herself to reapply it. But first, she told Chloe

about more couples: one eighty-six year old who had two hip replacements but still led

his girlfriend, twenty years younger than him, through a sequence, and there was a

woman in her sixties who was coming for brain scans because she was slowly losing

vision in her right eye, who had a wife, not a husband which made for a new challenge.

The kids had left the table, intent on getting back to their digital games. Yanni had

reabsorbed into his articles, and retired back into his office, leaving the two women to

clean up. Alfonsina insisted she finish the task, after all, that’s what she was paid for,

but Chloe stacked the plates and gathered the dirty utensils into a pile.

Majo Molfino / 11

“Yanni can finish this,” she said.

“It’s not a problem.”

Chloe crossed her arms and then sighed. “I’d love to get another bottle of wine.”

“I can go if you want.”

“I could use the walk.”

It was cold but Alfonsina yearned to move, since she’d been standing and sitting

for the last few hours. Her bones ached. How would it look if she abandoned the job half

done, left it for the man of the house to finish upon his wife’s request?

“There’s a store just a few blocks down on third,” said Chloe.

They cut through the park, a plot in the shape of a teardrop, which consisted

mostly of wood chips and concrete. It looked like maybe it had been dedicated to loved

ones lost, probably of a wealthy family, whose names were etched on benches and

marble tiles embossed in the ground. A string of tiny white LED lights framed each

monument, with little sayings above each person’s name, like “walking through,”

“always strolling” or “giver of life.” The park was empty, except for a homeless woman

who was meandering on a bicycle. Chloe explained how the boys never liked walking

through the park, which had been finalized about five years ago, commissioned by the

city and a few patrons, to commemorate those who died in a domestic terrorist attack.

“About fifty seven people died, that’s why it’s known as ‘Park 57,’” she said.

“I see why the boys avoid it,” said Alfonsina, wrapping her arms around her

body. Her cheeks and lips were numb from the cold.

Majo Molfino / 12

“I kind of like it, especially at night.” Chloe’s breath shimmered a luminescent

grey.

At the northern end, before hitting the street, a massive Christmas tree stood at

least ten feet tall. It was encircled by a fence and some of its branches were poking out.

Chloe touched one of its green arms. “Funny how they chop it down and hang all

these plastic things on it.”

“It brings some joy.”

“I guess.”

“I feel that way about flowers. Flowers die so we can enjoy them for a few days.”

Around the base of the tree were little gifts wrapped in glossy paper. She

wondered how her sister’s kids were celebrating, how much they would say they missed

their mom. How much they would ask her when she was coming home. And the truth

was, she didn’t know. It felt strange to be away for Christmas, which was synonymous

with trips to the beach and ice cream dribbling down your wrist. But she had spent her

whole life in Argentina, close to family. And now she was almost sixty.

Chloe reached over the fence and rubbed one of the hanging ornaments. It was a

little wooden boy, with a red drum hanging from his neck. She lost her balance, and

leaned into Alfonsina.

“Are you okay?”

“I get dizzy sometimes.”

“Nausea?”

“It’s more like I’m losing my feet, like someone’s lifting me off the ground.”

Majo Molfino / 13

“Let’s get some wine.” Alfonsina wove her arm under Chloe’s. “You can lean into

me as we walk.” She was happy to see Chloe didn’t resist. But she stopped every ten to

fifteen paces, her eyelids a little droopy. By the time they made it to the wine store and

back to the house, she was back to her normal spirits.

“Yanni?”

There were candles everywhere in the living room and Yanni appeared holding

one of them.

“The boys?”

“They’re fine, my love. In bed. Nothing else they can do, right?”

Alfonsina checked the kitchen and dining room to see if the dishes and food

were still out.

“It’ll be easier in the morning when there’s light,” said Chloe.

“No problem. I can come back.”

“But you must finish this bottle with us,” said Yanni. Chloe didn’t reject or

encourage his suggestion.

Ordinarily after working with a family, she would go back to her apartment and

stay in bed, listening to music from back home. The thought of the isolation that

awaited her made her feel relieved to stay in the dark apartment with Chloe and Yanni.

She asked whether she could put some music on, from her device. The old recording,

though digitally inscribed, still had the crackle of an old record playing. The speakers

weren’t ideal, but it felt suddenly worth sharing given all their curiosity about her

dance.

Majo Molfino / 14

“This is lovely,” Yanni said. “I can dream up the streets of Buenos Aires.”

“It’s over 100 years old.” Alfonsina said, smiling and rolling her shoulders back.

She queued up a few more songs and sat the device down on the little table beside the

couch. Yanni sat back and closed his eyes, with a glowing wine glass in his hands.

The music threaded into Alfonsina’s joints and began moving her skeleton

through the small living room space. First, she made small steps, which soon became

longer strides. Chloe stood up abruptly and left the room. Yanni sat motionless in the

dark, so she wasn’t sure if he was sleeping. Maybe he was still watching her. Maybe she

had offended Chloe somehow, in showing them her songs and movements, by dancing

in front of her husband.

Chloe came back and sat in the armchair behind Alfonsina. After a few seconds,

a note pierced the air, quiet and quivering for a moment, then thinning out into a long

arc that grazed the ceiling. Alfonsina paused as the sound rippled through her back.

More notes came – high and drifty for the first minute, before turning full, ebullient,

quick, like the fairy lights in Park 57 wrapped monument after monument. Alfonsina

resumed her slow turns, drawing invisible curves into the wooden floors. Chloe’s body

swayed left and right, as she exhaled deep puffs of air into the dark narrow space of the

instrument.

Once, while vacationing with her family, Alfonsina had asked her sister to dance.

The sun had set and the wind carried the smoke of burning meat and salt. As the

temperature dropped, waves crashed over the cacophony of men playing soccer,

Majo Molfino / 15

children digging holes, and women chatting as they pulled sweaters over their moist

bathing suits.

“Let’s do the sequence.” Alfonsina turned to her sister, who was the chubbiest of

her siblings, with frizzy hair.

“No, get one of the boys.”

“They don’t know.”

“Fonsi...”

She eventually gave in but after the first few seconds, she paused. “You can’t do

most of the turns in this sand.”

“Let’s see.”

“We look like idiots.”

“Come on. You think we’re that important? Nobody’s looking at us.”

They held each other, chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, tangling in and out of each

other’s legs. They glided in diagonals and circles as the beach mud caked their feet, as

the rhythm of the waves, hissing in and out, became their private metronome.

Such dances were the few times they really touched each other, besides the

occasional kiss on the cheek and hug. Years later, after intense radiation, her sister

would recall the torturous beach dance with laughter and tears in her eyes.

The song thinned out into silence and Alfonsina closed her sequence as her leg

dragged in towards her body. In every corner of the room, the winter air had settled

into the floor, as well as in the area below Alfonsina’s arms and between her legs.

Together, they turned and watched Yanni’s body expand and soften in the darkness.

Majo Molfino / 16

“Easy sleeper,” said Alfonsina. She sat down on the floor at the base of the

couch.

“I envy it.”

“Oh?”

“I get nightmares.”

Alfonsina looked at her, saying nothing.

“You want me to describe it to you?”

“Only if it helps.”

Chloe sat up, and rested the clarinet across her thighs. “Okay. It’s the same one

over and over again. I’m playing in this very important orchestra, and there are so

many people watching. It’s somewhere in Europe, like Austria. And all the women are

wearing diamonds, and the men have some very expensive suits on. But I can’t play.”

“Too nervous.”

“Kind of. Actually, I look down.” Chloe looked down at her hands. “And I see

that my hands have been amputated. I have no hands.”

Alfonsina tucked any stray hairs behind her ears, then massaged the back of her

neck. The light had cast half of Chloe’s face in darkness.

“I’m open to interpretations,” said Chloe. She crossed her arms so that the caves

of her armpits swallowed her hands.

“Something is missing,” Alfonsina replied.

“My hands are missing!” Chloe laughed, pressing back into the armchair.

Alfonsina raised her eyebrows.

Majo Molfino / 17

“Are you thirsty?”

“Me? I’m fine.”

“It’s so dry in here.” Chloe rested her left hand at the base of her throat. She

poured herself another glass of wine.

“Your dream.”

“What?” Chloe took a large sip.

“It’s stuck in your throat.” Alfonsina wrapped her right thumb and index finger

around her throat, so that they mirrored each other.

Chloe looked down at her hand. “Yah, well.”

Yani was curled over in a fetus posture facing the other way.

“Do you remember who cut them off?”

Chloe put her wine glass back down on the table. “No.”

He mumbled some gibberish and the women froze. Water expenses please. In the

notebook, over there.

Chloe shrugged and covered her mouth, which forced her laughter into a series

of hisses. Then her face turned serious and she cleared her throat. “Your dance just

now,” she said, looking down at her clarinet. “I envy that too.”

“Most people can learn the basic steps.”

“Even old couples in the hospital.” She stood up and leaned her instrument

against the back of the arm chair. She patted the sides of her sweater against her waist.

“Exactly.” Alfonsina rose from the floor and gently turned Chloe around. “It’s

one line of energy,” she said, sliding her hand from the top of Chloe’s head down her

Majo Molfino / 18

spine. “One.” Her hand brushed downwards. “Two.” She started at the top again.

“Three.”

Chloe held her hands together and they rested lightly in front of the space

between her legs.

“Relax your hands,” Alfonsina said, as she kept stroking Chloe’s spine up and

down, much like she had with the older women in the hospital, as a way to teach the

basics of alignment. She squared Chloe and held her elbows so that they were about a

foot and a half apart. “Now close your eyes.”

“This isn’t tango, is it?”

“Yes, it is. I’ll lead and you follow.” Alfonsina shifted her weight to her right leg

and Chloe mirrored her. She shifted her weight to her left leg, and Chloe followed suit.

“You have to feel where I’m going. But try not to anticipate.” As Alfonsina paused her

weight on one foot, Chloe had already switched to the other side. They both laughed.

Then they shifted their weight together but Chloe lost her balance.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Alfonsina wrapped her small hands around Chloe’s biceps. “No apologies.”

Chloe’s eyes widened, creating two lines on her forehead.

Alfonsina relaxed her grip. “Just don’t lean, and transfer from one leg to the

other. Now you lead.”

Chloe paused in the middle for a few seconds and then shifted her weight to her

left foot.

Majo Molfino / 19

Alfonsina followed with her weight. “Good,” she said, “Tango is about sensing

each other.”

“Mom?” Thierry stood wrapped in a blanket in the darkness, on the edge of

where the living room meets the hallway. The blanket draped over his head and

engulfed his body so that he looked like a little ghost.

“I’m so cold,” he said. The wind was flapping the material against his skin and

his teeth were chattering. The door had swung open again, and was knocking against

the wall.

“That stupid door,” said Chloe, as she grabbed a chair from the dining room and

disappeared down the dark hall. The wind called out, emitting sharp hollow notes, and

then retracted into a silent texture. When she came back, she knelt down next to

Thierry so that she was below him.

“I hadn’t noticed,” she said.

“You were dancing.”

“Did you have another bad dream?”

“I heard the music.”

“We’ll fix it soon, I promise.”

“You told dad to do it and he didn’t. Then he told you to do it, and you didn’t do

it either.” His voice cracked as he began to weep. He flung his body against her.

She reached down for an edge of the blanket and swept the material under his

eyes. “I know baby, I’m sorry.” While she spoke, she tried to catch his expression, but

Majo Molfino / 20

his face was now buried deep in her neck. “Come.” She hoisted him up and he wrapped

his skinny legs around her waist.

Alfonsina came closer, afraid they might fall.

“I’m good,” said Chloe, as she took slow steps forward. Steadily, in the dark, she

carried her son up the stairs with the blanket draping behind her like a piece of old skin.

In that moment, Alfonsina knew the Barkers wouldn’t be calling her back; this

would be the image of Chloe she would crystallize in her mind.

A few seconds after they left, the lights turned back on. Yanni rose and wiped his

mouth with the back of his hand. He fumbled for his glasses and adjusted them on his

face. “I couldn’t remember the line before,” he said as he rubbed his palms together.

“But I do now.”

Alfonsina turned to face him, the song on her device crackling to its final verse.

“Tenme prestas las sábanas terrosas...Me voy a dormir. Turn the earthly sheets

down for me and prepare my quilt of carded moss... I’m going to sleep.”

[END]

Majo Molfino / 21