By Sarah Jean Carter
It was the day of the car show and when we came home the kitchen was a garlicky hell, laughter and Chicago Spanish coming out the windows. So you sat on the front steps and I on your knees. I sponged my copper polished legs soaking through my skirt while you rubbed ice on my shoulders. You didn't have to remind me that I refused the sunscreen twice but I barely felt your goodnight because your lips were burnt sore, too.