The Things I’ve Found:

Pearl-white chickweeds bursting through rocky asphalt as my sister and I walk from the bus stop back home. We braid flower crowns and play princess, and we come home bearing armloads of clumsy bouquets to give to our mother. She lets the weeds bathe in an empty jam jar and places them by the kitchen window. I watch them for days after, mesmerized by how the glass could melt slants of light into one rippling shadow. 

A big jar of Tiger Balm, the rim crusted from years of waxy residue. My father unscrews the lid, releasing the sharp scent of camphor that stings the air cool and clean. He draws circles on my stomach and rubs the swollen soles of my feet, coaxing pain to loosen its grip. He does this for every night I have fever, and against the low, steady hum of his heartbeat, my eyes fall shut in his arms.

My grandfather’s hearing aid after he throws a temper tantrum and refuses to wear it, convinced that he is in peak physical condition. Per my mother’s orders, I climb under the sofa to look for the silvery, mechanical peanut, fascinated that something so small could cause such a huge ordeal.

Shards of glass in golden bourbon, glinting like coins settled at the bottom of a wishing fountain, and my father passed out on the living room floor. Behind car doors on the way back from school, my mother wonders why she defied her parents to marry such a weak, selfish man. When we get home, she mops the vomit off the floor and spoons clear broth into my father’s mouth anyways.

Blood stains in my underwear for the first time. Blood stains on my calculus textbook at 2am, stuffing wrinkly tissue papers to soak up the remaining red streaming from my nose. Blood stains on crisp, white hospital sheets as I retreat to a dim corner, listening to the faint beeps of my grandfather’s heart monitor while tearing bananas into bite-sized pieces.

My sister’s high school diploma under the living room bookshelf. She drops to her hands and knees as I steady the flashlight, and when we manage to slide the thin linen sheet out from the dust-filled shadows, my mother frames it properly next to mine. 

An empty pack of Marlboro Red’s crushed to the bottom of the bathroom trashcan. My father doesn’t drink anymore, having given up one habit for another. We all pretend not to smell the smoke, and instead of screaming or silence, my parents exchange laughter over fried eggs and buttered toast. While stacking dishes into the sink, my sister and I make a secret pact: when the time comes, when we are older, we will part them—our mother with her, our father with me.

My grandfather wheezing on the shower floor, shaking in a pool of wet, swirling crimson. My grandfather’s brown leather wallet as we clear out his old belongings, baby pictures of me, my sister and all my cousins tucked between his credit card and a wrinkled 20 dollar bill. 

Unsigned divorce papers that date back nine years, folded neatly between two ironed dress shirts. Tiny dried flowers that hang limp and upside down, taped to the glass of my mother’s vanity; they are so much more dull and unremarkable than I had remembered. Brushing the flowers aside, I gaze into the mirror, wondering when my reflection had grown so old.