How to Make a Woman's Shoe

Your mother is weeping in a corner. She sits so high up, on pillows and bandages, that she is almost invisible, just a shadow on the underside of a cloud. You and your sisters are wrestling on the sparkling granite floor, tearing each other's hair and clothes. Wearing pumpkin and skeleton masks, the nurses swoop in and out, checking the dials on the walls and injecting blue fluid into the pinkish wallpaper. The hems of their velvet robes sweep your faces as you shriek and grunt. You have the stone in your fist, the red stone with an insect in it, and your sisters are trying to pry your hand open. The insect sometimes moves – she squats uncomfortably, or holds her stomach. In the distance, your mother sings a lullaby, forgetting half the words, then slumps in sleep.