I rub it into hands and hair, smear it on my face. It is not my birthday, but Dorothy Jane has made strawberry cake the old-fashioned way. I sit in her lap, she tells stories about great, great grandmother Sarah, her love of brut and butter, I dream about Sarah, her hair tangled in my fist, pulling until I wake. Down the throat, it is caught there. Tiny fingers roll in, salty-sweet.
“I won’t tell anyone.” She takes off her shoe, rolls the faded sock, tongue, finding sole the car purrs our lips, press, she is gone.
