by Ellen Birkett Morris

Laurie pushed slowly against the old wooden door, its chipped paint revealing a cheery yellow undercoat, moving the door inch by inch until she could squeeze into the dark room. Her creeping sight returned as her eyes adjusted to the dark, revealing a chair draped with her mother’s uniform. It smelled of cigarette smoke, sweat, and the lemony scent of her mother’s perfume, the smells of death and labor with a touch of sunlight. Though her mother worked at night when all was darkness. The black shades blocked the afternoon sun. The end table held her mother’s cigarettes and the remnant of a drink, its vapors stinging her nose. The shape of her mother under the covers, motionless, her dark hair pressed into the pillow, frightened Laurie. When her grandfather died, a well-meaning but clueless teacher equated death with sleep. Though she couldn’t make it out in the dark, the thought of her mother’s rogue right eyebrows standing tall from the pressure of the pillow gave her comfort. Laurie waited, as she did each afternoon, to see the rise and fall of her mother’s chest—proof that her mother was still alive, abandonment was temporary, and life was not as fragile as she believed.

Photo by Naufaria on Unsplash