Sun-drenched and slick, I rolodex through rosters of time, my index of memories strawberry-sweet and wet with rain. I know this spot: the line between glass and sand, anticipated air-bound momentum; pre-moment. In post, the moment becomes a memory, slicks of rain I’m wiping from my rear window with wipers as I drive, distracted, facing forward.

Voice moves up and through me like viscous char. Sun and the warm April air come in my moving window and it transforms, forms new sounds, sticks to parts inside of me, stilled at each corner on its way up. I crack in its presence.

Stackable photograph keychain holds dad's picture firmly in place. It's something I take behind me like a broken pillow, not for the memory or feeling but as an exchange for the parts of me that don't match the me she sees. 

Bathroom door opens and I'm caught, the line between my fear and her face dotted with lies, rules I tell myself to stop from being whole. My dream of me breaks apart like lemons. I offer my keychain, sealed, smooth.