What on Earth does my son’s name matter? There are three of him—four at most—and they all look like their worthless father, who comes and goes. Why take pills when I can make my grandmother’s apple crisp by heart? I don’t need to remember—I know. Grainy clumps of brown sugar stick to my fingers, I lick off the excess. Ripe red fruit beneath knife crunches in my ears. I’m with her now, mixing bowl on the seat of a chair. The kitchen counter’s still too tall for me. She bakes apple crisp, always. I come and go. I may not remember, but I know.


Becky Robison is a Chicago native and a graduate of UNLV’s Creative Writing MFA program. Her fiction has appeared in PANK, Paper DartsMidwestern Gothic, and elsewhere. She also serves as Social Media and Marketing Coordinator for Split Lip Magazine. She’s currently working on a novel.