Elizabeth Warren Shine
Living above a bar has its advantages, like, I never know what I’ll find when we clean up of a Sunday morning. Ma shoves a broom into my hands and I get to work, shoving dirt and dust in the air so as it settles back on the floor rather than into the warped plastic dustpans like Ma wants. My back’s crooked as a politician, so I’m not all for bending over except when there’s something in it for me. Something like a quarter, a cufflink, a shiny bit that catches my eye. Ma wipes at the windows, smearing smoke from cigars around and around in circles without cleaning it off, so it’s hard to see with the dust motes in front of my eyes and if something wants found, it has to work at it. Work like the frayed gold thread in Ma’s wool church blazer, a hand me down from her own Ma, split and worn and reaching out for attention like a glittery snake. My
nose itches, means I’m about to kiss a fool but I’m not superstitious like Ma so that old notion don’t mean a thing to me, but just as I start to push my nose around a bit with the palm of my hand to ease off some of the bother, it grabs me. It’s gold, so bright it catches the thin ray of sunlight that streams in past Ma’s grimy streaks on the window. I squat onto my bare, calloused heels and hold the broom handle in one hand to keep me steady as I reach out to pluck the thick circlet out of the dust. I hold it up to my face and stare, blowing gently to remove some of the dirt, and the gold winks at me, strong and true like a wise old eye. “What’s that there?” Ma stands over me with hands full of rags and vinegar, stinking like a pickle factory. “Nothin’, that is, nothing, ma’am.” I close my fingers into a fist over the ring but I know she sees it, sees me