by Nickole BrownIn Fanny's house, there were ways of killing someone by walking alone: I could step over my youngest uncle sprawled watching TV, could step over his boy heart or leg or arm— it wouldn't matter which—because unless you step back over him, right quick, by morning he'll be gone. Same goes for a bird let in the house—a sparrow in the laundry room had wings of the Great Scythe, and a black crow tangled in the living room curtains could well wipe the whole family out. And should you dream of losing your teeth—that meant death coming sure as an owl shits tiny bones of mice in the middle of the night; it was a full-on omen, start baking the funeral casseroles now. Funny, all that hoo-doo about dying with no intent to remember the dead—how Fanny hated photographs: I don't take pictures, she said. It just makes me sad, and if anything ever did happen to one of the kids, I don't want to be left staring at their face.
