Strawberry Jam -- Epigraph

“Who was it that said that coincidence was just God’s way of remaining anonymous?”
― Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

There's a strawberry seed stuck in between the girl's cuspid and premolar. Her tongue slides past the sharp canine, snaking its way into that gap her braces never fixed. Smile. She pokes out her tongue, showing me a golden teardrop lying on a pink cushion. I close my eyes and try not to think of Étoile.

Look, starlight, you can take a bite right off the vine.

No! I don't like the seeds!

You can spit them out if you want.

Okay. Will they grow into a new plant?

We can come back next year and find out.

The first time she meets Stumpy, she squeals and darts behind me, her fat toes sinking into the mud as she spins. Laugh. Her chunky hands pull on my corduroy jacket, fingers lacing through the holes made from broken, grainy fences that held on like Iola during those sweaty summers on the Tibet rug, back when she loved me.

Daddy! Look at this old fat pig. Let's take her home.

Starlight, she's missing a leg.

And an ear.

And an eye.

I'm calling her Stumpy. She can sleep in your bed.

Her dark skin protects her from the heat, but I rub the lotion onto her nose, still accustomed to pink cheeks and freckled frowns. Her eyes sting red, watering fat tears onto the withered ground. Console. She reaches towards me and pats sunscreen onto my bald spot with a hand so warm it almost burns.

What did mommy look like? Was she pretty?

She was… gorgeous. Like the moon. But she's nowhere near as beautiful as you, love.

Do you miss her?

Oh, honey. There's the pillowcase that I won't let Stumpy sleep on. The jam I make every summer but won't eat. The acorn stuck in the birdhouse. The white slippers in the closet.

Why didn't she take them with her when she left?

You can't take memories, starlight.

We walk hand in hand for the first time since I met her at the orphanage, cowering under the gaze of a nun. My palm is sweaty under the beat of midafternoon. Her hair is frizzy from my attempt to brush it, shiny broken off comb teeth trapped within it. Relax. Her fingernails bite into my arm, bringing my attention to the swing set in front of us.

Am I going to die, daddy?

…

Daddy, you're hurting me. Don't squeeze my hand so tight.

I'm sorry.

The bed isn't very comfy, daddy. I miss Stumpy. Her stomach makes the best pillow.

She's waiting, starlight. She and I both.

Do you find the beeping annoying? Sometimes I wish it would stop.

Oh, God. Please don't let it stop.

She points to a little mound of dirt with a plant poking out, a five-petal flower with a golden centre clinging to a vine. She rushes forwards and kneels on the dirt, her round knees making soft imprints. She examines the grave, stepping back with heavy shoulders when she can't find any fruit. Love.

"Maybe next year there will be strawberries, Sunshine."