They brushed a quarter with glueand glitter, slipped in on barefeet, and without waking mepainted rows of delicate goldfootprints on my sheets with a loveso quiet, I still can’t hear it.My mother must have beena beauty then, sittingat the kitchen table with him,a warm breeze lifting herembroidered curtains, waitingfor me to fall asleep.It’s harder to believethe years that followed, the palmscurled into fists, a floorof broken dishes, her chain-smokingthrough long silences, himpunching holes in his walls.I can still remember her printdresses, his checkered taxi, the dayI found her in the closetwith a paring knife, the nighthe kicked my sister in the ribs.He lives alone in Oregon now, dyingof a rare bone disease.His face stippled gray, his anklesclotted beneath wool socks.She’s a nurse on the graveyard shift,Comes home mornings and calls me.Drinks her dark beer and goes to bed.And I still wonder how they did it, slippedthat quarter under my pillow, made thoseperfect footprints…Whenever I visit her, I ask again.“I don’t know,” she says, rocking, closingher eyes. “We were as surprised as you.”