I remember a fireworks cake, long ago.
When I was still too young to know better.
“Those fireworks are for you,” we’d say.
The bruises on my face still sore from whatever transgression against her fragile, bitter ego.
There’s still a bit of red glitter in the car’s cupholders.
From the flowers I got her last year.
The day that I found out she was a willing part of my father’s plan to ruin me.
They couldn’t die fast enough.
I should get the car fully detailed and cleaned out.
And rid myself of her ghost once and for all.