by Rochelle Jewel Shapiro
“You’re rotten, a rotten kid, rotten, rotten, rotten.” Even in the still photo, you sense her finger’s menace as it wags, inches from your nose, her lipsticked mouth twisted. She could be the disgruntled fairy not invited to the christening who crashes the party, cackles: “Your daughter will one day prick her finger and fall down dead.” But this woman sitting next to you at the table is your mother and it’s your Sweet Sixteen. You’re wearing the green strapless with the gold flecks and your hair is piled up into a beehive. Her spell is already on you. Your face is white as the dinner napkin, your eyes glassy as the fluted water glass. Just one day before, President Kennedy was killed. You watched on TV as he slumped sideways in the Lincoln Continental, eyes closed, hands crossed as if he was already in his coffin, and Jackie, your First Lady, crawling over the back to escape.
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