The Things I Drag With Me
By: Loukia Borrell
Talking River Review
Fall 2025
I heard it straight from my parents, anyway. Things started in Ohio, years before I was born, when she was pregnant with my brother. One fight ended with a coffee cake from the A&P slammed to the kitchen floor. She spent time in New York, and he said he’d support her if she wanted a divorce. She came back, but she was so unsure of whether she’d stay, she waited seven years to have me. When I was six, she told me (I think my teacher called her) to stop telling people at school that I was a mistake and say I was a surprise instead. We brought that energy with us to Virginia, and when they were all dead, I still felt like I had to hold all of them in place. That was my legacy. Why I was born. To keep my brother company and stop a divorce. So, I drag all our things with me. Mother’s crystal and china. Old passports. Naturalization papers. Diaries filled with confessions and secret deals I made when I put myself in front of men who only saw two tits and three holes. Birthday cards from people I don’t know anymore. My brother’s stuff. His high school class ring and diploma. Medical records from the cancer that killed him. He told me I’ll need them if I get it, too. Newspapers from the day Diana died. JFK Jr., too. Albums and 45s. A rolled up poster of Clark Gable. Folders of my notes and stories I wrote about Aileen Wuornos (we were in the same room once) and a guy named Dana who did a prison break by stealing an ambulance. A stained napkin from Sharleen and Jimmy’s wedding. I might remember him. I don’t remember her. Piles of pictures. My hair is lush, dark brown and I’m skinny. I’m drunk. I’m tan. I have great legs. I wear corduroy Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. I kneel on top of a blue Nova, my hands in my pockets doing the old Christie Brinkley Sports Illustrated pose, with my hip popped out, big smile. There are photos of our mom and dad, arms linked, but I already knew they were falling apart. I’m gonna fix it. Keep up the lawn, bring in new furniture and carpets, new roof. Pay all the bills on time. The works. Make it what you couldn’t. And all of you will be so proud of me, and the neighbors will say they were so lucky to have her, and she was always such a good daughter.
