52: Sight
In the months when shadows disappear, when my loved ones had watched me graduate but not yet seen me off, I showed around pictures of gleaming silver merch. I saw bored expressions. But my mom spotted a pretty gift for the man she thought most handsome. It showed up in a plain brown box, and it was in our minivan (chipped paint, rust around the wheel wells) as my mom watched the road, past vibrant green corn fields I'd soon see from above, laid out like a map. I just had to see this knife for myself, and I saw it, and then saw red. Next time the sun shone that bright, I stood under fluorescents, eyeing the clock as people perused the shiny glazes and frostings on the shelves, and peeked at their coffee to check it was black.