OUR HANDS TOO SMALL by Jody M Keene
Jody M KeeneOUR HANDS TOO SMALL We come home for Thanksgiving to watch our mom die. We get there to find the blinds drawn and the fridge empty except for cans of Ensure and Kraft singles. “We’re going to order Thanksgiving dinner,” we tell her, “so don’t worry about getting up,” as if she could get up. As if she could make mashed potatoes and two types of dressing and cranberry sauce and turkey gravy and deviled eggs. “We’ll take care of it,” we tell her. “Let us do it all for once.” We put the turkey in the oven like the directions say and pop open a bottle of Gewürztraminer. Nothing goes better with grief, we agree. The kitchen fills with smoke around the time we shake the last drops out of the bottle—only we could fuck up an already cooked turkey, we say, as if it’s funny. At … chop! chop! read more!