By Megan Broughton

This is my living room: the one with the hot lava floor G. gamely challenges me to jump across on a trail of cushions without falling. Behind me, in the carpet, I sense the weighted imprint of the couch that was our safe destination. Except now our things are pretzeled together in a yellow moving truck and I am wobbling through a strange sea of things that are nearly not-there, fingerprinting the surfaces with my wet thumb to outline the edges. Below floating tabletops, I peek through layers of glass that unfold up and continue down. Some are clear, some sparkle, and other points are erased by light from an open doorway. I know where I am, but not what surrounds me. My fresh eyelashes sun-frame the transparent newness and I realize that what was mine is now someone else’s. Two women monument my vision, but I don’t see their eyes, just their teeth telling me not to touch, their muted bodies, and the multilevels of glass between us: beneath them, above me. My family had solid things in this room that you couldn’t see through. Now these invisible tables, jars, and decorations confuse me. Who lives like this? How do they see what they own? I tell my parents, “Don’t leave without me.” I don’t know how to live with so much delicateness.