She collects Mardi Gras beads. Everyone brings them to her, shopping bags full of colored globs. They come in tangles; they come in blues and silvers and reds; they come with tiny lobster medallions and King-cake babies. They come by the truckload. She wakes up early in the morning and dumps the bags onto the floor. In a nest of necklaces, she sorts them; some days by color, some days by shape, some days by a category only she knows. When leaving the house, she packs a bag of her fav...

The ten of us-- sisters, daughters, grandchildren– talked of her, in Helen's Garden surrounded by roses. We told stories of afternoon snacks, baseball games. The year, just graduated, she and friends took a tour of the Grand Canyon by donkey; I imagine her, pin curls and smiling. Her hatred of grapefruit, and her face each Christmas when two dozen grapefruit were delivered; the weeks she watched them slowly rot. I didn't want to share our stories, our long afternoon dialogues when ...

Chelly continued her contortion, folding each of her three orange legs over her head while her fingers formed interlocking tunnels of varying diameter. She never broke eye contact. “Now,” she crooned, “show me your people’s love rituals.” Alec smiled wildly. He gazed toward his pants, where his little soldier was already prepared to conquer this alien race. “Right here, baby,” he said, gesticulating at his crotch. Chelly unwound herself and placed two...