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Fireworks He never called me by my name. It was always: “Baby this, baby that.” I blamed it on my mother. She named me Carmina Josephine, after my grandmother. The one before tried “Mina” a few times. Never stuck. I met him at a bar on Lover’s Day. He said if he’d known he would’ve met me he’d have called his flower guy. He said I looked like lilies. Like tulips. Like bears and balloons. And on that barstool, it was: “Baby this, baby that.” Then came the Fourth of July. In South Florida that means margaritas and fireworks on the beach. Laughing and singing. All of his friends, none of mine. He wanted to take me on a boat ride, but his stomach couldn’t take it. So on the beach, in the glow of “Gold Comets” and “Chrysanthemum Bursts,” it was: “Baby this, baby that.” Thanksgiving he said he wanted to bake me a turkey. But his uncle was ill and his mother wasn’t having it. So he flew up there to be with them, snow storm and all. And on the phone, as I had take-out over waves of silence, it was: “Baby this….” Christmas he wanted to take me to the mountains. He said, “Poconos. You belong in the Poconos.” Skiing and hot tubs. Except his brother’s new wife was having Christmas at her house this year. First time ever and all four families were coming. She had a pool party on the 25th. “Deck the Halls” in the background, and on the water, I heard: “Baby this, whatever…” He came over the night Lucky died. I’d had her since she was a puppy, so he thought some wine might help. “Baby, dying’s what animals do.” He put on an old comedy. He held me, kissed me. He said everything would be okay. There’d come the days when we’d make our own luck. And, the movie on pause, it was—well—you know. Then in bed, I said, “I love you, John,” and he said, “I love you, Angie”. I saw him on the sand again, Fourth of July. He was stepping off a boat holding her bag. She had a margarita in one hand and his back pocket in the other. I heard them laughing and singing. Saw them kissing. And over the hiss of “Bottle Rockets,” the burst of “Roman Candles,” it was: “Angie this, Angie that.”

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BWOWP_WHITE01  

Black Words On White Paper is a unique literary journal, publishing poems and flash fiction that fit onto a single page. This is the premier...

BWOWP_WHITE01  

Black Words On White Paper is a unique literary journal, publishing poems and flash fiction that fit onto a single page. This is the premier...

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