Death in Los Angeles

by Emma Raimondo

My mother is a realtor with a taste for wood paneling. She specializes in mid-century modern homes. Homes built when bans on filling swimming pools were in place. She likes a wide, rectangular view of the hills. When she tours a potential listing, she stands in front of the widest window and worries when an earthquake will hit.

When I visit her, I stop by the Griffith Observatory. Our old field trip spot. We would drive up after a quake to use public telescopes. I gazed through the scope and wondered about her homes.

Once, I had a dream about the children from a small Swedish family she sold a house to. Two toddlers playing wood blocks on an orange shag rug, folded into the earth. A block hits the knee, a rock hits the head. I wondered about geometry, what new shape the home could take. What the bird sculptures would bludgeon.

My mother calls me the day after an earthquake, never the day of. She likes a buffer in case she dies. Avert an aftershock jinx. If she calls in the morning, she could die in the afternoon.

Emma Raimondo is a writer based in Arizona. Her most recent work can be found at The Disappointed Housewife. You can spy on her @emmalizie on Instagram.