It was one of the few things
I recall them agreeing on,
the grossness of olives.
When I put them on my
fingertips and waved in their faces
Mom and I were
a united front,
making them squirm.
My sister, who grew up in the same house and
somehow had a completely different
childhood from me,
made quietly animated sour faces.
My dad, who once went so far as to
eat ants off a windowsill to
convince us he was in fact
a vampire, would say, “Disgusting.”
I wore black olives on my fingers
as often as I could.