KIM CHINQUEE

It Wasn't Supposed to be Permanent

 

      He called himself The Ugly. His girls roamed, watching a preemie get baptized, which brightened them, and then they went back to the ward where their dad took drugs that flattened him. Their mom was never pessimistic. She said things like, he'll be fine, and what about some pancakes? She smiled her enormous smile and put her enormous hips on the chairs and read the big, enormous paper. The girls fit on a chair together and looked at the window and heard the hallway doctors, their voices concerned and athletic. The nurses smelled like Christmas. The other side of this was hot dogs and Minnie Mouse and candy. The girls were twins, and their father used to dress them. He’d yelled. Like somebody had blessed them. He’d said a-ha. Haha. His eyes were glossy. They got up from their chairs, skipping through the hallways to a floor with balloons.