word #1

sulfur

When I was nine, my mom spent two months in the intensive care unit of Strong Memorial Hospital. Every few days, she was supposed to die in the night. Sometimes I slept at my grandparents' house, where there was no heat in the upstairs bedrooms. The sheets were cold and crisp. I slept on the bottom bunk. I would imagine I was somewhere else. I was a little girl in a book I was reading, and in the morning I’d wake and do my chores.

In the morning, the bathroom smelled of Prell and Lysol. The washer always seemed to be open. Through the window, I could see a dead tree.

Judy was my mother’s best friend. When she was available, I stayed with her instead; she was much closer to town. She had two sons that were my age. We watched Stephen King movies and HBO. I twisted my toes in the yellow and brown shag carpet. I slept on the top bunk. I was Geoff's sister.

When I woke up in the morning, my toes were navigating Hot Wheels and Legos. When I brushed my teeth, the sulfur smell went to the back of my throat. I could hear the stream hitting the drain, but I said in my head, “This is not water. This is rotten eggs.” I brushed harder, remembering the Cary kids, who used to come to Sunday School rank with syrup breath from the morning’s waffles. Somehow I was sure that the sulfur would give it all away. Everyone would know that my mom was 2 hours away, dying or not dying, and I was wearing blush that I stole from her bathroom the day after the ambulance came.

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