HOLY HORSE, GRACE FRANCIS evasive maneuvers

Outside, Union Jack flags connect each house to the other like they’re hugging. My mother’s delicate fingers grip the seat of the bus as it slowly stops.

These houses are a different breed from home, with rounded roofs and doorways that hide snails in August. My granny’s house is no exception. I close my eyes and am in the bedroom again. I think of the ugly bright pink hydrangea comforter, of sleeping in the same bed my mother slept in as a child, in the same room with the purple walls and the sharp click of the lightbulb’s pull switch.