Least we don’t have interstate running through our front yard, she says. Our baby
splashes in the blow-up swimming pool behind our trailer. Hard to believe we made something that’s half her, half me.

I don’t like her anymore. Not the baby, the woman who made her. We had fun times but
this is just living. Scrapping by just so we can eat ring bologna every Friday night and save enough grocery stamps to get this damn pool.

I never understood my father until now. His moody silence. Stone face lit by the glow of the television every night. His only joy a pack of Kools and a cowboy movie.

Honey, I think there’s a hole in the pool already, she says. Get the duct tape. It’s in the shed.

I hesitate.

Naw, I used it all up, I lie.

I’ll run down to Dinky’s. Won’t be long, I say.

She smiles up at me as I kiss our little one good bye.

Dinky’s is never open on Sundays. She should’ve known right then and there.

Christine Baerbock

Christine Baerbock

Christine Baerbock resides in the Midwest. Her work has appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, Flashshot, Peninsula Pulse, Page & Spine, Weird Darkness, (b)oink, placed in the Hal Grutzmacher Writer Contest, and been included in several anthologies.
Christine Baerbock

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