Where You End by Anna Pellicioli Page B

so easy to be with me. Maybe that’s who I was.
    But what was I supposed to change then? How could I give in and not give up? How could I come out whole? What would have to die for me to stay close to Elliot, to anyone? Was it possible to be in love and be yoursel f ? Love is loss is love is loss is love.
    That day, I made it to the ocean and swam for an hour. When I got back to the house, they were all gone, maybe to look for me, maybe to get ice cream. I left a note for Elliot and took a cab to the train station, where I bought a ticket for the first train back home. That’s where I took the last picture of the summer. From that train, of a street in the Wilmington ghetto.
    I’m in your woods, Elliot. Can you hear me? Picasso’s daughter wants to meet me in your woods.

thirteen
    I pass the empty picnic areas and walk up the hill to the Nature Center, a small building that reminds me of a mountain lodge. Paloma is sitting on a bench outside the entrance, her big bag between her knees. She looks disappointed.
    â€œIt’s closed,” she says.
    â€œOh.”
    â€œI should have remembered. It’s closed on Mondays.”
    â€œWhat’s in there?” I ask.
    â€œLet’s see if I remember. There’s a bookstore, a play room, and even a planetarium for people interested in stars.” She winks at me and smirks. Her favorite part seems to be the taxidermy: “They have an owl, a fox and a whole raccoon family, all stuffed up … ”
    â€œHow do you know this place?” I ask.
    â€œMy mom used to take me here,” she says.
    I try to imagine her mom and what she might look like. I’m afraid to ask about her illness.
    â€œYour mom sounds pretty cool, you know, taking you to the Cathedral and the Nature Center,” I say, trying to sound casual.
    â€œShe took me everywhere. I don’t know how she found out about these things, but she knew this city better than people who’ve lived here their whole lives. She was incredible,” Paloma says, her eyes a little watery.
    â€œI’ve never been here,” I say, “and I’ve lived here forever.”
    â€œMy brother loved to feed the snake,” she says. “You can watch a ranger feed a rat to the snakes. ”
    â€œNo thank you,” I say. “Like a live rat?”
    â€œYup,” she says. “They strangle it, swallow it up, and then they sit there for days, depending on how big the rat is.”
    I shudder.
    â€œWhat?” She laughs. “You don ’t like rats?”
    â€œNot so much,” I say. “I especially don’t like rats being swallowed by snakes.”
    She smiles. “My little guy would go right up and touch it.”
    â€œYou mean your brother?”
    She looks defensive. “Yeah,” she says.
    â€œWhat’s his name?” I ask.
    â€œPablo.”
    â€œLike Pablo Neruda,” I say.
    â€œYeah,” she says. “He was my mom’s favorite poet.”
    I look for the book in my bag, but I left it at home on my unmade bed. I tell her I forgot it, but she doesn’t seem worried.
    â€œDo you want to show me the picture?” she asks.
    I show her which buttons to press and hand her the camera. I stay standing. It’s my only leverage.
    She looks at the screen for an eternity. Her eyes squint, as if she wants to see what’s beyond the image, inside the machine. She rests the camera on her lap and unties her hair. A few strands get caught in the elastic. She keeps her eye on Bogart, braids her hair, and picks the camera back up. She moves it closer to her face, occasionally pressing buttons without making any comments.
    I have no idea what she’s thinking or whether she’ll be satisfied. I did get the stickers in there, which must be her brother’s room. And that’s the door she’d walk through every day. Those are the windows she’d opened when the rooms need air. That’s the