KATHLEEN MCGOOKEY

POSTCARD FROM THE EMBASSY CLUB

To begin with, Mother, Edith likes the rows of palm trees, three deep, and the crisp rectangular hedges which separate the beach from the clubhouse parking lot. She also likes the precise tilt of each umbrella over each lounge chair on the sand, and the waiters who bring lemonade and are not allowed to flirt. Sunlight here comes down fringed. It washes everything to black and white, form and shadow. Edith and I cannot be likewise reduced. Yesterday when she found a pigeon’s nest on the ground at the date grove, she cradled and stroked it. She tried the weave the broken halves together. This afternoon, a waiter delivered, on a silver tray, a watercolor of an ostrich egg inside an iron birdcage, its shell pressed against the bars. From an admirer, the envelope read.