Is this your car?
They looked at each other nervously.
What car, mom? they asked.
She pointed to the red bicycle. This one, she said, clearly confident.
Mom, that’s not a car. That’s a bike.
No, no, she said. Clearly you’re wrong.
She dug through her purse, pulled out a set of imaginary keys, and opened an imaginary door. She climbed over the bike frame and sat on the seat. She leaned over and rolled down an imaginary passenger-side window so we could hear her.
You see? she said. If this wasn’t a car, could I have opened it with my car keys?
She selected one of her imaginary keys, put it into the imaginary ignition, made a sound with her mouth (clearly, the car turning on), and took off.
We watched her go down the street, pedals flying, hair blowing in the wind. She paused at the stop sign, turned right, and disappeared behind the corner house.
What just happened? Corbu asked his sister.
I have no idea.
In love and liminality,