Necklace of Souls

Today I'm wearing my skull necklace, bought in Mexico. I think it flatters my tight skin and thinning hair, makes me look witchy. Egg whites sputter and yolks cloud as I prod them with a spatula – my father likes to chat to me in the kitchen, so I've chosen the simplest of recipes, otherwise I get distracted by his mathematical formulas and theories. His jaw scratches my neck, a fault in the glaze. His voice is like a tiny tape in an obsolete answering machine. Fingering him, I say to my reflection in the kettle how come you always take centre stage? Shut up a moment, let's hear from the others. I know it's risky attempting to steer a liminal conversation but that's me, I never visit loved ones' graves, instead we play hide and seek, grandmother's footsteps.

Grandma's skull begins jumping around the necklace. She's trying to get close to him, like that'll ever happen! Grandma nurses murderous intentions, just this morning she tried to push me downstairs. Grandma? She bites my neck and says I tried to warn you. About what? Death, hahaha. Oh dear, Grandma said a taboo word. The other skulls instantly draw painted gold zippers across their hostile blue china mouths. Except for Max, an elongated flat-headed skull, which snaps its teeth and goes woof woof. And a featureless ball placed high up near the clasp, who's too young to know how to zip a zipper. Little brother, I say, do you remember how I protected you from the grown-ups? He sings and whines like a toy aeroplane.