The first time your mother ever hit you, you realized she has hands. You knew all along that she had them, and that they would grow cold. (You used to tease her for wearing gloves in fifty-degree weather.) Yet, it wasn’t until that moment when you felt them.

Every memory you have of your mother’s hands involves watching them. How she’d oil her cuticles before pulling on her cleaning gloves. The way she dangled her one wrist, like a praying mantis at rest, with her other hand on her hip. When this happened, you loved how her gold bangle rattled. She never took it off.

After she hit you, she told you not to call for help, or there’d be consequences. She gulped down more of the drink you had been sharing. She left the rest for you. It’s a shame you don’t like cola.