The photograph is old, faded at the edges. A young woman stands beside Hot Mama, hair wild, smile sharp, eyes painfully familiar. She has one hand on her hip and a cigarette in the other. She looks like she is about to either kiss someone or steal their truck.
Caroline.
My mother.
Not tired.
Not bitter.
Not dying.
Alive.
My hand lifts, but I stop before touching the photo.
Hot Mama comes back to stand beside me.
“She hated that picture,” she says.
“Why?”
“Said her hair looked like a raccoon got electrocuted in it.”
A laugh breaks out of me.
Then a sob.
I cover my mouth.
Hot Mama doesn’t touch me.
Nobody does.
Crying is allowed.
Whining is taxed.
So I cry quietly in front of a wall full of women who understand enough not to make me explain.
After a moment, I ask, “Was she a Queen?”
Hot Mama’s gaze stays on the photo.
“We weren’t Queens yet. Not official. Not then.”
“But she had a crown?”
Hot Mama looks at me. “Some women patch in. Some women leave blood on the floor and get remembered anyway.”
Lottie said the same thing.
The words feel like a door I’m not allowed through yet.
“What blood?” I ask.
“Later.”
“Hot Mama.”