Are you my daughter?
Marla is standing in the hallway,
staring at the wedding band on her fourth finger.
Sometimes I forget, she says.
I’m a gobshite.
I couldn’t even tell you what day it is.
Is it Friday?
No, I say. It’s Monday.
How do you know?
Umm. Because tomorrow is Tuesday.
She rolls her eyes.
I turn on the bathroom light.
And I’m not your daughter.
I’m Toffee.
Do you need anything? I ask.
She blinks slowly,
and rubs her hip.
To sleep. I just need a good old sleep.
It is three o’clock in the afternoon.