My mother is watching me with witch eyes, like fire, like coal, like the sheen of dew on spring grass, even though her mouth is slack and her teeth are gone and there’s coarse grey stubble on her chin.
It’s eleven-something, I’m vaguely aware of, like I’m vaguely aware that it’s a blazing heatwave today, no damp, and my kids are at the beach with my husband, and the dogs outside are lying on the pavements, tongues lolling out, panting with it all.