Cushla Managh
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the letter
She said your skin doesn’t fit you and I remembered when she was eight, she put on my bra and spun, the white double-dees fluttering against her thighs like birds in a chimney. Sometimes you have to grow into things, I said, sliding the letter into the drawer next to the socks, the bills, the will. We sat in the kitchen, ate the last of the cake and she picked at the table’s oak veneer, peeling it back with a broken toothpick. In another room I could hear someone, some other, screaming the fucking water’s up to my neck, I can’t stand here much longer but after a while the voice stopped and I said hey Molly why don’t we have Christmas early this year and I’ll get you that folding bike. She was pleased, I could tell, then she said your skin doesn’t fit you and finally I said I know.
