I was laying out my outfit for school when I was seven years old a fuchsia sweater with one thick stripe across the chest and some faded blue jeans and I was being strapped in the car seat inside my father’s van driving east of the island and passing fields of billowing violets and my sister was carefully crafting double buns in my hair with flea market clips and there was a lamp that rested on my bedside table inside the old house painted in ladybugs and dahlias with pink jewels dangling from its rim and I wonder what she would think of me now with these dirty fingernails and smoke trapped inside my lungs like my mother’s picture inside that old locket.