latchkey ANNE VALENTE
Sasha’s birthday fell on a Wednesday, and though her parents gave her a present, its string and paper meant to be torn away that day, almost ten days have passed, and still she has not opened it. They wrapped it in paisley paper, tied a bright purple string around its corners and hoped she would pull all the casings away, just after she blew out the seven candles on her frosted yellow cake. But when Sasha blew hard across the sugared flowers, her cheeks puffed like globes, her mother made her close her eyes, placed the gift in her hands, and when Sasha opened them and looked down, she only said I love it, her voice a low whistle, and set it aside on the carpet fully wrapped. Don’t you want to open it? her mother asked. But Sasha only said no, and her mother looked at her father over Sasha’s small head. Then Sasha said it again, that she loved it as it was, and her father cut the cake and gave his daughter the corner piece, the one with the most frosting as she always liked. They might have thought something was wrong, that maybe she anticipated what it was and knew she wouldn’t like it, and refused to expose her disappointment, there in the kitchen, in front of her parents and the candle smoke drifting in curls toward the ceiling. But after Sasha ate her Anne Valente
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