My ears are filled with sounds: the kitchen faucet pouring hot water on my rag, Lady Gaga crooning Paparrazi over my stereo, Hana uttering baby gibberish and playful squeals, and angelic strains coinciding with the music.  I follow the last  sound, watching Cadence’s mouth synchronize with Lady Gaga.  She catches me peeking at her, breaks into a sheepish smile, and turns away.

Hana picks up Cadence’s disgarded toys: a half chewed barbie (from when dogs still terrorized the house), and a new Ariel bath toy.  She swings them in the air.  Her bed head mohawk sways in the toy engineered air.  She talks to the Ariel doll, smoothing its hair away from its face.  Her big sister’s trash has proved to be her treasure.

“Hey!”  Cadence has noticed the special attention paid to her toys.  She wrenches them from Hana’s hands.  Hana falls backward, crying, screaming.  I diffuse the situation, each child cradling one doll.  They stare at me and each other with matching expressions, lowered brows, and pouting lips.

So much for angelic.

The table begins to shine under my rag.  I work around the center piece: a glass vase filled with red hybrid roses.  Out in the distance something is missing.  The mountains lurk, half finished, half painted.  The stripe of cloud/smog erasing their base from the painting.  It would be pretty otherwise.

I touch one of the rose petals, recalling to mind Cadence’s warning the afternoon Jake and the girls gave them to me.  You can’t touch them, she’d said, or they’ll die.  Funny to hear her say it.  I’d taught either her or Jake (or both) about how the oils on our fingers will kill the petals, leftover knowledge from high school Horticulture.  I drop my fingers.  It’s hard to resist touching beautiful things.