She’d been Flo’s for eight years, came when she was just eight, never knew a washcloth or shoes until Flo saw to it. Never had a dry bed until Flo believed she could. Never knew why a woman’s body did what it did until Flo explained it.
And maybe I taught her too much. Too well. She took it with her—everything I showed her, she took with her.
And as her lids grew heavy, she pulled her arms in tighter against her, imagining a daughter from that belly, pretending she had the power to see to this, too.
