House Rules
Camille MyrickI was wrapped up thinking about my mother and missed the pair I could have made with the diamonds. I idolized her—my mother—like most boys do. I was thinking about Friday afternoons in 87’ when she’d take the weathered ACE deck from the top of the coffee cabinet and begin that anxious, shuffling ritual with her hands. She could bend and flutter those cards in one delicate motion. Poof—bye, bye, Benny.
The church women would file in at half-past six smelling thick with musk and fresh gossip. They stole my mother’s attention, swallowing her up in a fleshy, clucking circle as corn-chip casserole aroma billowed in the kitchen. From the living room, I watched Mom playing bridge; her eyes studying the black and red faces in her hand. I suspect that’s the closest a poo
