Evie Duffy
KINDLE (CW: family dysfunction, fire)
APOLOGIES WERE BOUND TO BE MADE,
even if they didn’t need to be.
even if they didn’t need to be.
Apologizing was something I got from my mother's side. It didn't have to mean anything, it just had to make things right. I found that this trained me. I never needed an explanation. I never thought someone meant ill will against me. I didn't question.
APOLOGIES
were given to me for whatever reason. The night she left they apologized. She had taken their car, yelled at them, but they were still apologizing to me. They were crying in front of me, shaking with little snot bubbles blossoming from their nostrils, showing their true selves when I didn’t need it. They spoke so much but made no moves to do anything. I wondered how two people could be so misguided and still be the people I adored. I imagined my sister already halfway across town, finding some cheap motel to lie to about her age, getting a dirty room to stay in for the night. But maybe that wouldn't happen. I was scared and no one was doing anything about it. The house felt like it was still shaking from their voices. "We’re so sorry," they cooed, as if it solved something.
were given to me for whatever reason. The night she left they apologized. She had taken their car, yelled at them, but they were still apologizing to me. They were crying in front of me, shaking with little snot bubbles blossoming from their nostrils, showing their true selves when I didn’t need it. They spoke so much but made no moves to do anything. I wondered how two people could be so misguided and still be the people I adored. I imagined my sister already halfway across town, finding some cheap motel to lie to about her age, getting a dirty room to stay in for the night. But maybe that wouldn't happen. I was scared and no one was doing anything about it. The house felt like it was still shaking from their voices. "We’re so sorry," they cooed, as if it solved something.
They shook their heads. That was a show of weakness to them. "We’re the parents."
"What does that mean anyway?"
BLAME.
"He blames me for you girls." That’s confusing to hear. I used to wonder if the blame was for us being born or us turning out the way we did. Maybe a little bit of both. I wonder what 'turning out' even means when we aren't even old enough to have turned into anything.
"He blames me for you girls." That’s confusing to hear. I used to wonder if the blame was for us being born or us turning out the way we did. Maybe a little bit of both. I wonder what 'turning out' even means when we aren't even old enough to have turned into anything.
Don’t worry, there's enough blame to go around. My mom mumbles about completing school, stretch marks, and starting a life somewhere else. Those regrets seem almost juvenile, like they are expected of a young mother with a husband like that. Just something that was a part of the female experience. Strangely, I found myself lacking empathy for her. I always thought that we were in this together, stuck forever, and I was annoyed that she wanted something else. It felt like betrayal at the time but I get it now. It’s alright to want things to be different.
The blame doesn’t lie on me. Someone else is blamed for all that. I don’t know how to operate when I know someone else is punished for me being something. I could never pinpoint the problem either. I always took the trash out, even at night; that was mainly because of the bugs, but I still did it. I had always thought I wasn’t in the equation, that my sister was the only problem, but that wasn’t true apparently. When she told me that, I could still see the veiled rage so clearly, stored under her sternum, despite her composure as she told me. She looked cool as she said it too, dragging one of her slow-burning cigarettes after a sharp inhale.
BLOOD
shed within the brood. Scraped knee. The gravel in the front driveway had a way of pulling you down and slicing through skin. This always happens. You couldn’t ride a skateboard or a bike or pull a wagon without something crashing and burning. It's just a driveway.
shed within the brood. Scraped knee. The gravel in the front driveway had a way of pulling you down and slicing through skin. This always happens. You couldn’t ride a skateboard or a bike or pull a wagon without something crashing and burning. It's just a driveway.
The blood found a streamlined path from her knee to my sister’s ankle. Straight and red. It brimmed on her bobby socks, coating the edge of the lace but that’s all. It never broke past the barrier of the lace. She screamed. I know it didn't hurt that bad and I know she knew that too but the shock was too much to bear. I understood that even then. I found myself dabbing her wounds using a dirty towel in the garage, the younger taking care of the older. I think the first thing I ever hated was rocks.
BONFIRES
here are not normal bonfires. It's a collection. My mother will walk the yard and pick up sticks and throw them in the pile and the pile becomes something more after about six of those walks. Dry fall. A stack of bones in my backyard. Autumn comes and the pile is to the trees, brimming even, stories tall. The adults tell stories and drink out of cans. I'm not supposed to be there, I managed to sneak out in the dark. Walked all the way out there myself, tiny legs and all. They let me stay anyway, as if it's important. I can almost hear my dad saying "she's gotta learn."
here are not normal bonfires. It's a collection. My mother will walk the yard and pick up sticks and throw them in the pile and the pile becomes something more after about six of those walks. Dry fall. A stack of bones in my backyard. Autumn comes and the pile is to the trees, brimming even, stories tall. The adults tell stories and drink out of cans. I'm not supposed to be there, I managed to sneak out in the dark. Walked all the way out there myself, tiny legs and all. They let me stay anyway, as if it's important. I can almost hear my dad saying "she's gotta learn."
They use a can of lighter fluid to start it all. It kind of looks like an old piggy bank or something that stores hard candies. It's not. It's light and filled with lighter fluid which creates light in the form of fire. I don’t get how it works even now. The stream of fluid can catch fire, the fire jumping from the branches to the fluid and then to the top of the can if you're not lucky or quick enough. "Put it out before the pyrotechnics start," my mom would caution us from a safe distance away.
Growing up here is always hearing a warning. If that happens, throw the can down and stomp it. If you’re caught in it, roll on the ground. What if the ground burns? It won't. It's all personal, there's always something that happened to the neighbor or the neighbor's nephew when he visited from Lexington, but no one can seem to remember the exact details. The only thing they can remember is the lesson.
Lighter fluid. Cans and cans of it. But not too much. Too much is too much. The whole field could go up. A match or two, using the matchboxes snagged from the hostess table of one of the nicer local bars. The matchbox designs hold my attention before the show begins.
It's a ceremony, really. My mother builds something up over time and my father comes over and sprinkles some things here and there before the whole thing goes up in flames.
The sticks molt, their layers of bark peeling back like bananas under the weight of heat. There is a halo that rings the assemblage, comforting me under its glow. The flames belly dance, wholly unattainable and mysterious all at once. Drawn like moths, even adults stand agape in its presence; it always surprised me how stupefied they seemed in the fire's presence. Embers float lazily like bubbles through the dark and my eyes follow, fearing that one landing on the wrong blade of grass would scorch the whole Earth. Is no one else worried? I knew even then that I couldn't control the flame. It should've scared me more thinking about it.
The blue of the flame confused me when I was little. I had never imagined fire to be blue and I had already found comfort in the familiar orange of the heat. I cried when my dad told me that the blue part of the fire was the hottest. Blue was supposed to be cold, like that album cover or pictures of Antarctica. I thought he was making fun of me. What do you do with a child who doesn't know anything but feels that their intelligence is insulted? I always felt he was making jabs at me just for correcting, even when I was little. He would laugh when he told me, that was probably the issue there. I was stubborn and on guard. He was teasing by nature and sometimes just uncaring. Not mean, uncaring. That's a nice way to put it. When he told me, I remember turning away and pouting, having this feeling I was clearly right. I must have been miserable to deal with when I was younger. Everything after that was just me being humbled.
My sister never saw the bonfires even though she was older than me. It was something you had to go and get, apparently. There was no invite. She pouted hard whenever she went outside the next day and saw the ash. Her lips would curve, cutting harshly even into her cheeks when she was young, forming jowls of discontent. No matter what, we found a way to complain. Still, we didn't know any better. When you’re little, a bonfire seems like the whole universe.
Once it gets going, you can see the molten caverns that form at the base of the fire. There are bones in the caves, which are really just sticks but for some reason they looked like some predator cleaned them off. The molten caverns cocoon their radiance, the glow being reflected on its curved walls and contained all at once. Within the fire is its own world. I imagine a civilization built in fire, with little fire people and buildings made of the molten material that somehow manages to maintain its shape. The caverns shouldn't sustain. They look so hot, they probably should collapse within themselves. Instead, they form like little fairy doors in a tree, making what once seemed impossible part of something so natural. Sometimes these caverns can burn the whole night. I always wanted to grab the bones like Barbies, cozy into those caverns, and play house.
CURTAINS
were the nail in the coffin. Scarlet O'Hara would be upset. When the curtains catch flame, there isn't even space for a breath before they all go up. The flame scales upwards, swallowing the teardrops of the paisley pattern. They were turned to ash before I gasped, before my hand flew to my mouth and a scream leapt out. I had spent childhood hiding behind the curtains, little white sneakers poking out from the bottom and my sister pretending to not see me so I wasn't embarrassed about my obvious hiding spot.
were the nail in the coffin. Scarlet O'Hara would be upset. When the curtains catch flame, there isn't even space for a breath before they all go up. The flame scales upwards, swallowing the teardrops of the paisley pattern. They were turned to ash before I gasped, before my hand flew to my mouth and a scream leapt out. I had spent childhood hiding behind the curtains, little white sneakers poking out from the bottom and my sister pretending to not see me so I wasn't embarrassed about my obvious hiding spot.
I pictured myself standing behind the curtains as they were engulfed, a wall of fire forming a curve around me, leaving me untouched.
CONTROL
is nothing something fire knows. You couldn't control a fire if you tried, even if you tried really hard. I've never tried but that's just something you should know, I think. Something that I was told.
is nothing something fire knows. You couldn't control a fire if you tried, even if you tried really hard. I've never tried but that's just something you should know, I think. Something that I was told.
DOGWOOD TREES HELP TREAT DOGS.
If a dog gets sick with mites and mange, you boil the bark of a dogwood tree and take the drainage, basting the boiled bark on the blemishes. The dogs always bark. Dogwoods bloom these beautiful white blossoms every spring, branches heavy with its boasts; I’m sure they never expected to be used in such a way, their beauty wasted on the broken flesh of sick dogs. It's a disease caused by mites burrowing into the dermis, I'm told. I watch from the deck railing as my dad and the neighbor's son wrangle the dog as he writhes. I don't need to watch but I do anyway. Better than TV.
If a dog gets sick with mites and mange, you boil the bark of a dogwood tree and take the drainage, basting the boiled bark on the blemishes. The dogs always bark. Dogwoods bloom these beautiful white blossoms every spring, branches heavy with its boasts; I’m sure they never expected to be used in such a way, their beauty wasted on the broken flesh of sick dogs. It's a disease caused by mites burrowing into the dermis, I'm told. I watch from the deck railing as my dad and the neighbor's son wrangle the dog as he writhes. I don't need to watch but I do anyway. Better than TV.
My father's fingers slip into the muzzle, the skin weaving through the teeth. He keeps them there, knuckles wet with saliva. Fangs are bared. He still doesn't move his hands. The neighbor applies the boiled bark, unsuccessfully quieting the dog. The dog's maw moves in a white flash and I watch them clamp down on my father's hand. He lets the teeth sink in for a moment, I can tell. His skin looks delicate as a petal as the indents are formed. I can see the pressure but my dad's face remains unchanged, bordering on accepting and indifferent. Seedlings of blood sprout from his skin in a perfect arc. He removes his hand from the muzzle the same way one might remove a silk glove.
ELBOW GREASE.
I used to think elbow grease was something you could buy in the store. My mom would tell me to put a little elbow grease into it and I would wait for her to bring it out.
I used to think elbow grease was something you could buy in the store. My mom would tell me to put a little elbow grease into it and I would wait for her to bring it out.
I imagined the bottle to have a nice whale on it, for some reason. I wondered if it was stored in the pantry or the refrigerator. The grease would be thick like vegetable shortening and magical, especially on burnt casserole pans and oily stoves. Grease combats grease. I imagined that elbow was a euphemism for something else, something close to animal fat, the way that gelatin was a euphemism for boiled horse hooves.
She always said that when I was cleaning the stove or washing the windows. I was old enough by then to reach all the corners, so I had no excuse. I was older and better at cleaning after years of being told the “right way" and still the house was the same. If anything, I was probably making the house look worse. The place was layered in grease and then covered in dust. I didn't seem to notice this until I was cleaning, forced to focus on the mess. I scrubbed, annoyed that there was some miracle cleaning solution that was always alluded to but never presented.
EYELASHES.
Butane can go up pretty fast. My mom holds a lighter close to her face, balancing a cigarette out of the corner of her mouth comfortably. When eyelashes are burnt, they get this white powdery look at the end, almost like a delicate layer of snow. They grow back until they don't, I suppose.
Butane can go up pretty fast. My mom holds a lighter close to her face, balancing a cigarette out of the corner of her mouth comfortably. When eyelashes are burnt, they get this white powdery look at the end, almost like a delicate layer of snow. They grow back until they don't, I suppose.
Still, she smokes. I imagined angels to have the same white-tipped lashes, like it was some sort of accessory. Still, even with the burnt eyelashes, there are moments when I see that she and my dad were dancing all the same. Side-stepping softly in the kitchen, they held each other and maybe even felt soft together.
FRIDGERATOR.
When my birthday came around we had to leave my birthday cake to sit out on the kitchen counter, covered in aluminum foil to keep out the gnats. Those annoying little fruit flies stayed regardless of season. The fridge was full, stocked for winter.
When my birthday came around we had to leave my birthday cake to sit out on the kitchen counter, covered in aluminum foil to keep out the gnats. Those annoying little fruit flies stayed regardless of season. The fridge was full, stocked for winter.
All space on the top shelf had been absorbed by my father, who apparently found a good deal on ribs and brisket. The red of the meat was so vivid it almost felt tacky. Still, the marbling and the look of the meat looked delicious. I always thought that it must taste soft and strangely salty, even while cold with blood. 'Are we hibernating?' is a real thought I remember having. I was ten and just learned about it in Miss Grady's science class. The slabs were on display for days too long; the chore of marinating and smoking meat was too much of a commitment right now, he said. My mom got on her knees and rearranged the second shelf to make room for leftovers.
The cake withered, the icing flowers turning to hard sugar rather than wilted petals.
GREEN BEANS.
My mom tries new words every now and again—'string beans' and, if she’s feeling it, 'haricot vert'—when she talks about them. She folds her arms across her chest and laughs as she walks through the narrow forests of bean poles, discussing the vegetables like old friends. "And your father, well I had a really good year where the stalks came to be over six feet. It was all that nice mulch I bought. Anyway, I had to get on his shoulders to pick all the pods. I made him take me through three times just to make sure I got every one." She shakes her head and smiles. She looks almost like she wants to describe the vegetables as 'silly' but stops herself, knowing I would make a joke about her fondness.
My mom tries new words every now and again—'string beans' and, if she’s feeling it, 'haricot vert'—when she talks about them. She folds her arms across her chest and laughs as she walks through the narrow forests of bean poles, discussing the vegetables like old friends. "And your father, well I had a really good year where the stalks came to be over six feet. It was all that nice mulch I bought. Anyway, I had to get on his shoulders to pick all the pods. I made him take me through three times just to make sure I got every one." She shakes her head and smiles. She looks almost like she wants to describe the vegetables as 'silly' but stops herself, knowing I would make a joke about her fondness.
I'm not sure how much I learned under her guidance. She’d reach out and touch a leaf absentmindedly, only to say something like: "you know that green beans are only fuzzy when there’s too much humidity, right?" She’s not inquiring, but expecting this knowledge of me. Then, it would change; sometimes the reasoning for fuzzy beans were as clear cut as unripeness, timing, or distance between seed poles. It didn't really matter because she was probably right, just in different ways.
She took a fallen pod and placed it between her teeth, instructing me to do the same. The color of green was not too deep, the bean almost-barely mature, but it still contrasted with the white of my mother's teeth. The crunch of the skin under her bite cut through the silence between us. The skin was leathery and felt a little bit like licking our living room couch. I made a face, trying my hardest to be a good daughter and not spit out raw beans everywhere. My mom had finished her pod. She looked at me and smiled big, a thin layer of dirt caking her front teeth. She smiled wider when I pointed it out.
HALO.
Sometimes it seems like all I was made of was hunger. I wanted something from everyone in that house. I would make a plate for my father and pass it his way so he didn't have to get up from his chair, hoping he would notice. He did actually. He liked when people cared for him, though he would never actually admit he wanted that. He returned the favor by passing me candies, scooping ice cream for both of us, with only two bowls out.
Sometimes it seems like all I was made of was hunger. I wanted something from everyone in that house. I would make a plate for my father and pass it his way so he didn't have to get up from his chair, hoping he would notice. He did actually. He liked when people cared for him, though he would never actually admit he wanted that. He returned the favor by passing me candies, scooping ice cream for both of us, with only two bowls out.
I felt bad about it. I knew it was wrong of me. I felt like I was betraying my sister the older I got. She would sit and watch, knowing where I was going, what I was doing before I even knew. She could see how the air was charged before I ever could. "You’re such a brown-noser."
"You’re just mad he likes me more." I said it so fast, it was instinct. I’m sure it was something that had been hanging around in the back of my mind, waiting for the right moment to come out too fast.
"Why would I ever want him to like me?"
I knew that what I said was true and what she said was a lie. Despite her defense, a look of contempt was easily detectable on her face.
HONEYSUCKLE.
I think our neighbors, a collection of older and cooler high schoolers, told us about the honeysuckle. We would leave the house for the yard before dinner time; the smells in the house were too tempting to be around. The sun would melt into the horizon, causing the Earth to turn an orange hue and the heat to linger in the air. Hungry, we would find our way to the honeysuckle.
I think our neighbors, a collection of older and cooler high schoolers, told us about the honeysuckle. We would leave the house for the yard before dinner time; the smells in the house were too tempting to be around. The sun would melt into the horizon, causing the Earth to turn an orange hue and the heat to linger in the air. Hungry, we would find our way to the honeysuckle.
You do not eat the flower. I had eaten many a flower in front of my sister, so she was always monitoring me spring through summer. The honeysuckle has to be nipped at the end, where the vine connects with the bud. Pull the end of the flower and it looks as if there is a string coming out from the bottom. At the end of that string is what looks like a water droplet. It’s nectar.
I had eaten honeysuckle plenty of times before. Sometimes we’d come out and sit in the green under the honeysuckle bushes and just make a meal of it. I loved the idea of something so sweet being something entirely hidden and natural, like a whole different universe was in one blossom.
My sister reached into the bush without looking, distracted by my presence, and began to scream. Her hand retracted instantly.
She must've jumped back about ten feet. "Ew! Ew ew ew ew ew ew ew! What was that?" Her wrist was waving wildly in the air, as if she could shake the feeling from her skin's memory.
I began laughing hysterically. It was a hummingbird, beautiful and delicate. It was hungry too. Hummingbirds have to be the least scary animal. The teasing began and didn't stop for a while. My sister was traumatized but I couldn't stop laughing. Little water droplets came from the corner of my eyes and I licked them by the time they made their way to my chin. "I hate nature. It's always so gross." She was annoying and I was still young, barely nine, but I knew I adored her even then.
HOWLING.
It was a loud first fight. I remember thinking that one of the neighbor's dogs was causing a racket. I didn't go downstairs but I heard it all. Something about grades, school, getting serious. It was always turned back around: "well mom didn’t go!" . . . "well you're not your mother" and so on and so forth. I knew she didn't mean what she was saying, but the adrenaline was pumping through her, I could hear it through the floorboards. The next morning both of their throats were so scratchy they sounded like old cats. They sipped the tea from the same kettle and pretended like nothing happened. That was early on.
It was a loud first fight. I remember thinking that one of the neighbor's dogs was causing a racket. I didn't go downstairs but I heard it all. Something about grades, school, getting serious. It was always turned back around: "well mom didn’t go!" . . . "well you're not your mother" and so on and so forth. I knew she didn't mean what she was saying, but the adrenaline was pumping through her, I could hear it through the floorboards. The next morning both of their throats were so scratchy they sounded like old cats. They sipped the tea from the same kettle and pretended like nothing happened. That was early on.
"I WOULD LIKE TO STOP KILLING FLIES JUST FOR ONE DAY."
It seemed too late in the summer to be having this many bugs. They were lazy and small, which weirdly made them more annoying than the fat flies that always managed to make it through the screen door.
It seemed too late in the summer to be having this many bugs. They were lazy and small, which weirdly made them more annoying than the fat flies that always managed to make it through the screen door.
The gnats congregate around a fly trap made of vinegar, sugar, water, and dish soap like it's their own private pool. The kitchen began to reek of acidity when it got too hot inside. I had to do the dishes after dinner, it was my week. I would stand at the sink swatting at these little specks, getting water all over the walls. The buggier it got, the more it felt like the kitchen was closing in. The heat of the sink water would leak into the air, fogging the windows over the faucet. The fly graveyard would waft every now and again, the sharpness of its smell stinging my nose. The kitchen crowded even more as my sister cleared the table and my parents filtered in, throwing knives or empty plates into the basin before me. Strangely, to stand in there encompassed by the kitchen felt as good as a hug.
INK.
His skin contorted under the smudged ink, the images becoming something entirely different. The skin was raised, bumpy, sometimes even coriaceous from being in the sun all day. Some of the tattoos were as you would expect a guy to get when he was in his twenties and dumb. Things like rolling die or snakes intertwined, making an infinite loop of scales on his skin. They only seemed mysterious until you saw the smaller ones.
His skin contorted under the smudged ink, the images becoming something entirely different. The skin was raised, bumpy, sometimes even coriaceous from being in the sun all day. Some of the tattoos were as you would expect a guy to get when he was in his twenties and dumb. Things like rolling die or snakes intertwined, making an infinite loop of scales on his skin. They only seemed mysterious until you saw the smaller ones.
He had gentle tattoos, at least gentler than you would expect from him. The image of two lambs, resting in grass or three little lines of black ink, was imprinted forever just below his shoulder. The lambs looked soft and sweet. I never get how drawings can do that, make things look more tangible than they are. My pointer finger would find my way to that part of his arm, trailing the barely-there contour. I was young but I remember there was a time when he didn’t have that tattoo. He never got annoyed when I asked him to show me, he always lifted his long-sleeved shirt and smiled, just happy to be treated like an art museum.
JUNE 21ST.
We're older now but it hasn't gotten easier. It's not easier to watch, that's for sure.
We're older now but it hasn't gotten easier. It's not easier to watch, that's for sure.
The whole thing was pretty simple honestly. She came back after dinner. She had just gotten her driver's license, which, in turn, gave her this false idea around her maturity. I only realized how young she really was by the time I was older. I mean, how do you get a god complex driving your dad's practically totaled Forerunner? Either way, my father said she couldn't drive at night. I still don’t blame her for screaming back.
"I can’t what?"
"No driving at night. And you know what? No friends in your car, only your sister. And do not miss another family dinner again, you hear me?"
"No driving at night. No friends. You'd rather me kill my sister in daylight instead of all that?"
My father scoffed and turned to my mother. "Your child is ridiculous."
"Her child? I’m your child too."
"Well you’re not acting like it."
"What is your child supposed to act like anyway? I’m acting like you. I’m being a tyrant."
She looked to me for help. My parents were already aligned; my mother's face contorted as she joined in on the screaming. It was a whole mess, really. I didn't know what to do. They were already ripping each other apart. I was the odd one out, I couldn't jump into the drama for the life of me. When I was younger, I felt responsible for extinguishing the whole thing, but this time it just wasn't working. It was one of those fights where you can't even hide in your room because the sound travels through the walls like butter and the whole thing becomes inescapable.
The word 'unfair' is so funny to me. I always think of the Shakespeare 'fair' used to describe the skin of some maiden, but I think I was fourteen by then and reading Romeo & Juliet in class. My sister must've said 'unfair' as many times as she was old, which I guess was a lot now that I think about it. It felt like a lot at the time. More words were said. 'Smothered.' 'Controlling.' 'Demagogue' was thrown in there at one point, which was definitely new.
She left the house with nearly broken vocal chords and drove off into the dark.
KRAFT.
My sister would always make the dinner when my parents were out for the night, even by the time I was old enough to operate a stove and smart enough to call 911. She would rattle the boxed mac n' cheese like some kind of mess call and take over. Boiling the water always felt like forever when I sat and watched, letting the older be the oldest.
My sister would always make the dinner when my parents were out for the night, even by the time I was old enough to operate a stove and smart enough to call 911. She would rattle the boxed mac n' cheese like some kind of mess call and take over. Boiling the water always felt like forever when I sat and watched, letting the older be the oldest.
"Because I made dinner, you have to clean the pot." She reminded me even though she knew I knew. Cleaning the macaroni pot was infamous for being the worst chore in the house. She added the powdered cheese, which rained down from the paper packet onto the noodles in a delicate orange drizzle. Butter and milk were then added. She always just eyeballed it, but it was good every time. When I was little, I thought that my sister was the only one who knew about adding milk and butter, like she was straying from some long-established recipe. She always acted like she knew something I didn't, that she had some secret or hack for everything, so it was hard to tell these sorts of things. She always let me serve myself first, watching me scoop spoonfuls with a patience I rarely saw in her elsewhere.
LIGHTNING BUGS.
It's not super interesting to catch lightning bugs. It's great to see them for the first time in early summer. The problem comes with trying to contain them.
It's not super interesting to catch lightning bugs. It's great to see them for the first time in early summer. The problem comes with trying to contain them.
Typically I required the encouragement of my parents, who usually watched from the porch, and the proactiveness of my sister. My dad would emerge from our garage, brandishing mason jars with holes already poked in their lids from last summer. Grubby tiny hands would swipe through the air and cup them. Into the jar they went!
I must admit, they were treated poorly. It wasn't even worth it; the lightning bugs are much more interesting out of captivity. We would rattle the jars, as if that would ignite something in their biology to perform for us. The luminescence is their way of telling others not to prey on them. That doesn't really matter when you’re in a jar with some six-year-old holding you. Doesn't make much sense either; the way to not be preyed on is typically to hide. That's what I would do anyway. Grim. And still I was the one taking these bugs, seeing that they didn’t want to be seen, and imprisoning them on my own accord. I was hardly even interested in bugs, I really just wanted something to keep and contain.
I would take my jar to my bedroom to see if they "worked" better there; I was always wondering if it was just a case of stage fright. It never worked. Rattling the jar never gets the reaction you want, anyway. The lightning bugs would die by morning in captivity, even with holes in the lid.
MONET.
The house is a Monet if you get too close. I would stand in my front yard, almost to my mailbox, and look quietly at what was supposed to be the front entrance. Distance is required to get this perspective. It's a whole mess until you step back, really. If you get too close, the whole place just looks like a bunch of blobs and pointed marks, all of which seem like they have meaning but they don't. They're just splotches that somehow make something more. The eyes can't interpret the finer details, like the expression on a family member's face or the cracks veining through the walls, but you can still get the picture.
The house is a Monet if you get too close. I would stand in my front yard, almost to my mailbox, and look quietly at what was supposed to be the front entrance. Distance is required to get this perspective. It's a whole mess until you step back, really. If you get too close, the whole place just looks like a bunch of blobs and pointed marks, all of which seem like they have meaning but they don't. They're just splotches that somehow make something more. The eyes can't interpret the finer details, like the expression on a family member's face or the cracks veining through the walls, but you can still get the picture.
NATS REST.
Rats Nest. It annoyed me whenever she said that. It was foreshadowing. I would wake up and roll out of bed without running a comb through my hair, only to have my neck pressed on the hard edge of the sink. Knots mosaicked across the ridges of my skull. "Just rest." I could tell she was annoyed with me by how she shampooed.
Rats Nest. It annoyed me whenever she said that. It was foreshadowing. I would wake up and roll out of bed without running a comb through my hair, only to have my neck pressed on the hard edge of the sink. Knots mosaicked across the ridges of my skull. "Just rest." I could tell she was annoyed with me by how she shampooed.
"OKAY, HONEY."
I worried too early. I consumed far too much news just from that tiny TV we had tucked in the corner of our kitchen. Nothing present or tangible scared me. I mainly feared things I never would experience: asteroids, eclipses that might never un-eclipse, the prospect of the sun exploding in 5 billion years. I would think of my future coffin exploding with the sun, which is insane for a seven-year-old, I think. I always ended up curled on the couch, sobbing into my father's arms, only to be passed over by space debris as if it were the angel of death seeing the blood on my door frame.
I worried too early. I consumed far too much news just from that tiny TV we had tucked in the corner of our kitchen. Nothing present or tangible scared me. I mainly feared things I never would experience: asteroids, eclipses that might never un-eclipse, the prospect of the sun exploding in 5 billion years. I would think of my future coffin exploding with the sun, which is insane for a seven-year-old, I think. I always ended up curled on the couch, sobbing into my father's arms, only to be passed over by space debris as if it were the angel of death seeing the blood on my door frame.
O'KEEFE, GEORGIA.
One painting of hers is called simply "Clam and Mussel." The more you look at it, the more it seems like something else. The name is simple but it's not everything. I would go back to that art book my mom had and pore over the lines; the painting itself was so clear, with sharp lines and clean shading. Yet, details of it remained a mystery, even right there in front of me. An ear. It looked like an ear when I was younger and then just a bunch of lines and nothing else when I got older. Then a womb, at least according to my mother. I scoffed at her until I saw it too.
One painting of hers is called simply "Clam and Mussel." The more you look at it, the more it seems like something else. The name is simple but it's not everything. I would go back to that art book my mom had and pore over the lines; the painting itself was so clear, with sharp lines and clean shading. Yet, details of it remained a mystery, even right there in front of me. An ear. It looked like an ear when I was younger and then just a bunch of lines and nothing else when I got older. Then a womb, at least according to my mother. I scoffed at her until I saw it too.
My sister didn't understand my fascination. "You don’t even like seafood." "It’s not about seafood. It's a painting." I remember pointing to the left edge of the painting, pointing out the darkness to her under the shell's hinge. The black underbelly would always be unknown to me, that's what bothered me. "There’s nothing even there, just shell." "Okay, but how do you know there isn't something more?"
ONE PERSON INJURED
after a fire broke out early this Sunday morning. The fire broke out shortly after midnight in a two-story home. The adjacent streets, Sweetspire and Vernon, were shut down as a result for some time Sunday morning up until the afternoon. People asked police to avoid the area. The police noted hearing smoke detectors on the scene but have no indication of how the fire started yet. No further information was immediately available.
after a fire broke out early this Sunday morning. The fire broke out shortly after midnight in a two-story home. The adjacent streets, Sweetspire and Vernon, were shut down as a result for some time Sunday morning up until the afternoon. People asked police to avoid the area. The police noted hearing smoke detectors on the scene but have no indication of how the fire started yet. No further information was immediately available.
Well, isn’t that just awful?
PROXIMATELY
two years between us. That didn't change much. We were treated the same way, we just reacted differently.
two years between us. That didn't change much. We were treated the same way, we just reacted differently.
What kept me quiet was fear. What kept her loud was fear, too. She tried not to act like she was scared, but there were moments when her eyes would glaze and she would look like a child again, younger than me. It would just take a raised voice, a slammed hand, even a broken glass once. To me, her face looked close to holy when she got like that. I would sit back and wonder how you could yell at a cherub.
PEANUT BUTTER AND HONEY SANDWICHES.
My sister unexpectedly made sandwiches for lunch, one for each of us. We were all surprised at the gesture. Everyone happened to be home. The peanut butter was melty, dripping down the sides of the honey wheat. We all sat on the porch and ate quietly, letting the sun shine onto our faces.
My sister unexpectedly made sandwiches for lunch, one for each of us. We were all surprised at the gesture. Everyone happened to be home. The peanut butter was melty, dripping down the sides of the honey wheat. We all sat on the porch and ate quietly, letting the sun shine onto our faces.
QUEASY.
The smell was enough to make you keel over. I tried to get near the aftermath but one inhale was enough to send me back. A wild cough came over my body in hopes to rid myself of all the melted chemicals I just took in. The wall of heat pushed me back anyway, my body told me to retreat. I couldn't escape the fumes but some aspect of me didn't want to leave. I stood in front, feet planted, suffocating on the night air. A hand dragged me away, grabbing me tight by the arm, before anything could really happen to me.
The smell was enough to make you keel over. I tried to get near the aftermath but one inhale was enough to send me back. A wild cough came over my body in hopes to rid myself of all the melted chemicals I just took in. The wall of heat pushed me back anyway, my body told me to retreat. I couldn't escape the fumes but some aspect of me didn't want to leave. I stood in front, feet planted, suffocating on the night air. A hand dragged me away, grabbing me tight by the arm, before anything could really happen to me.
It was quiet by the time I caught my breath again. I tried to understand and it only took realizing I couldn't to make the situation clear. I threw up then.
RING.
I heard it bounce hollowly off the side of the sink and pirouette delicately down the drain. The sound of the ring going forever sounded beatific, something so high-pitched and gentle. My father looked at me with wide eyes, mortified, holding a finger in shock. "Honey, I’m gonna need some help."
I heard it bounce hollowly off the side of the sink and pirouette delicately down the drain. The sound of the ring going forever sounded beatific, something so high-pitched and gentle. My father looked at me with wide eyes, mortified, holding a finger in shock. "Honey, I’m gonna need some help."
He had been washing his hands when it happened, they were dirty from work, and the water swept the gold band down the intricate pipes without a second thought. Quickly, the sink was undone, the pipes removed. I was the one with the tiniest hands in the house, so of course I was subject to stuffing myself in the black-caked PVC. I wiggled my fingers around, using them like eyes. When I told him I didn't feel anything, he took a wrench to the pipes and began to take them apart, at one point just hitting them to shake something loose. "Don't tell your mother, okay?" I had never seen him look so nervous until he wound up again, thinking that this would be the one.
RINGWORM.
"Now didn't I tell you girls not to leave the yard?"
"Now didn't I tell you girls not to leave the yard?"
The barn cats were too tempting to ignore. My sister kept insisting we go and see the kittens one last time. That turned into four more times. Red rings appeared on our skin like lonely constellations. I don’t blame her for it.
ROUTINE.
Wake up, not too late but not too early. No stomping or flushing or showering before seven. TV on low. TV cuts through the silence. No one wants to talk anyway, it's always too early. Sun blinding the chef. Breakfast is eggs and toast again. Not a bad thing. It still goes underappreciated. Dad moves through the kitchen, picking silently. He takes from my plate sometimes. I let him, I'm too tired not to. I can't stand my sister in the morning. She can't seem to stand me regardless of the time. She takes the last of the eggs. Mom wears a robe and holds a mug of light-colored coffee, as she always does. This is normal. It will be the same tomorrow. It's the same every day. It will be fine tomorrow too.
Wake up, not too late but not too early. No stomping or flushing or showering before seven. TV on low. TV cuts through the silence. No one wants to talk anyway, it's always too early. Sun blinding the chef. Breakfast is eggs and toast again. Not a bad thing. It still goes underappreciated. Dad moves through the kitchen, picking silently. He takes from my plate sometimes. I let him, I'm too tired not to. I can't stand my sister in the morning. She can't seem to stand me regardless of the time. She takes the last of the eggs. Mom wears a robe and holds a mug of light-colored coffee, as she always does. This is normal. It will be the same tomorrow. It's the same every day. It will be fine tomorrow too.
SMOKE.
I wake up to clouded vision. Tiredness hangs in front of my eyes like smoke. The air is stiff. Heat radiates from below. In the darkness, you would never be able to tell.
I wake up to clouded vision. Tiredness hangs in front of my eyes like smoke. The air is stiff. Heat radiates from below. In the darkness, you would never be able to tell.
SOMETHING SMALL.
By the time my childhood was over, I kept getting these recurring dreams, not really nightmares but close. In a field, there was a two-headed lamb and that was really it. In my dream I would try to walk close but never could. Greedily, I wanted to pet their wool with plans of stealing their coat, something fueled by that subconscious intent that guides a dream, but I never could. I just saw. They didn't do anything but stare back.
By the time my childhood was over, I kept getting these recurring dreams, not really nightmares but close. In a field, there was a two-headed lamb and that was really it. In my dream I would try to walk close but never could. Greedily, I wanted to pet their wool with plans of stealing their coat, something fueled by that subconscious intent that guides a dream, but I never could. I just saw. They didn't do anything but stare back.
I would wake up in a sweat and feel the need to catch my breath. I always would scramble to remember what I saw, as if it were any different from my other dreams where nothing happened. I told my mom and sister after the fourth time; by now, I didn't want to sleep. I didn't want to be stared at. They had no answers, except maybe some basic biblical symbolism suggesting the lamb was innocuous. I reminded them that two-headed creatures were considered a bad omen. They had no answers for that; instead, they shared a knowing glance, despite their knowing nothing. Maybe something bad would happen. I went to bed and found myself shooting up again out of my sleep. I bumped foreheads with my sister, who had been watching over me dutifully at my bedside. We both ended up with practically two heads ourselves, large welts taking on new lives on our forehead.
"SPACE IS THE PLACE."
"Space?"
"Space?"
"Don’t you want to go? Oh right, you're afraid of Earth being sucked into black holes and all that. Forgot."
"That’s not it. I just . . . I don’t get why anyone would want to leave?"
TRIPLE CROWN.
Mother didn't tell him about the bets she placed. Even the lottery tickets had a special box. I always thought things were fine, that we were content and didn't need anything else. I knew that was a lie by the look she had when the jockey paraded out her horse.
Mother didn't tell him about the bets she placed. Even the lottery tickets had a special box. I always thought things were fine, that we were content and didn't need anything else. I knew that was a lie by the look she had when the jockey paraded out her horse.
ULTRAHOT.
The bath water is so hot, it feels the same as touching a stove. My dad holds me by the armpits and places me in despite my thrashing.
The bath water is so hot, it feels the same as touching a stove. My dad holds me by the armpits and places me in despite my thrashing.
VELVET.
The dress was beautiful. A deep navy blue. A big smile came across her face when she looked at it in the bathroom mirror, looking past the water stains and toothpaste smears to see only herself.
The dress was beautiful. A deep navy blue. A big smile came across her face when she looked at it in the bathroom mirror, looking past the water stains and toothpaste smears to see only herself.
"You look beautiful." I was still young and saying such earnest things to my sister. She never showed me that she appreciated those compliments, but I'm sure she did.
The whole thing was deflated quickly with a "you’re not wearing that" from my mother. The dress had sleeves and it wasn't even that short. I'm not sure why my mom even said it, she wasn't one to care about how things looked like that. I sat on the bathroom counter, unwillingly intertwined in a discussion about expression. I know that my mom knew she was pushing her away, but she kept doing it in any little way she could.
VISTITANTS.
I was never really scared when I looked over the railing and saw things moving. It reminded me of magic in movies. The silverware was being set at the table all by itself. Napkins were folded and placed to the side of the plate obediently. The forks and knives were aligned neatly. I honestly couldn't have done a better job myself. I always thought knives went on the left.
I was never really scared when I looked over the railing and saw things moving. It reminded me of magic in movies. The silverware was being set at the table all by itself. Napkins were folded and placed to the side of the plate obediently. The forks and knives were aligned neatly. I honestly couldn't have done a better job myself. I always thought knives went on the left.
I brought them up to my sister and she said, "I know." I brought them up to my mom and she said she had seen them occasionally but never found them to be malevolent. I told her I wasn't scared and she said, “Okay, honey.” My dad had never seen them but knew of them. I'm just annoyed no one told me about them.
WOOZY.
I didn't feel great. I felt horribly woozy, actually. It was the heat. It was the smell. It was the char raining through the air. It was the ruins. It was seeing my dad hoisted into an ambulance. It was seeing the skin peeled back like bark to reveal the pink flesh underneath. It was my mom hesitating, having to decide between what to mourn. It was the thought of her even having to choose between something like that. It was seeing them drive away. It was the aftermath that made me feel the worst. I could feel my eyes glaze over, my brain go fuzzy. By then, I wasn’t sure if the heat was the blood pumping to my cheeks or the blaze. It was both.
I didn't feel great. I felt horribly woozy, actually. It was the heat. It was the smell. It was the char raining through the air. It was the ruins. It was seeing my dad hoisted into an ambulance. It was seeing the skin peeled back like bark to reveal the pink flesh underneath. It was my mom hesitating, having to decide between what to mourn. It was the thought of her even having to choose between something like that. It was seeing them drive away. It was the aftermath that made me feel the worst. I could feel my eyes glaze over, my brain go fuzzy. By then, I wasn’t sure if the heat was the blood pumping to my cheeks or the blaze. It was both.
Woozy, as a word, doesn't have a definitive origin. Woozy is a young word. Woozy doesn't have to come from one specific point, it just is.
XYLENES.
I know how it ended more than I know how it began. When I think of the beginning, I imagine her, my sister, placing rags and dryer sheets in different corners of the house. She lets the lighter fluid trickle freely. She takes a lighter she got from the nearby 7/11 and lights each corner. Her thumb is red and calloused; she is not used to using a lighter like mom is. She pretends it doesn't hurt. She moves quietly. She is content with what she's doing. She doesn't turn around to put them out, but continues to light them. It only takes a few to catch the wood. I imagine the doorframe igniting and hear the sound of a gas stove inflaming in my head when doing so. She must've felt powerful.
I know how it ended more than I know how it began. When I think of the beginning, I imagine her, my sister, placing rags and dryer sheets in different corners of the house. She lets the lighter fluid trickle freely. She takes a lighter she got from the nearby 7/11 and lights each corner. Her thumb is red and calloused; she is not used to using a lighter like mom is. She pretends it doesn't hurt. She moves quietly. She is content with what she's doing. She doesn't turn around to put them out, but continues to light them. It only takes a few to catch the wood. I imagine the doorframe igniting and hear the sound of a gas stove inflaming in my head when doing so. She must've felt powerful.
I'm sure the words "scorched Earth" rang in her head like they did mine. I am jealous I didn't feel what she felt and probably never will. She was always more committed. After the first few, it's too late to stop.
What gets me is that there wasn't even a warning.
"YOU NEED TO CLEAN THE ASH."
I look around. I stand in the kitchen as my mom naps on the couch. She looks peaceful. "YOU NEED TO CLEAN THE ASH." She repeats. It's a dream. Afflicted with being an annoying daughter, I wake her. Ash? What ash? She sits up and shakes her head as if that'll wake her. "Don’t know. Some dream." This didn't satisfy me. "Something about cigarettes, I'm sure. Hey, could you hand me that lighter, honey?"
I look around. I stand in the kitchen as my mom naps on the couch. She looks peaceful. "YOU NEED TO CLEAN THE ASH." She repeats. It's a dream. Afflicted with being an annoying daughter, I wake her. Ash? What ash? She sits up and shakes her head as if that'll wake her. "Don’t know. Some dream." This didn't satisfy me. "Something about cigarettes, I'm sure. Hey, could you hand me that lighter, honey?"
ZENITH.
Once it was set, she walked out and admired the flames. It was quiet and dark that late in the summer.
Once it was set, she walked out and admired the flames. It was quiet and dark that late in the summer.
The fire was too powerful and the blaze could not be smothered. Panic ensued. The rest of us scrambled out, confused, distressed, and coughing wildly. Black smoke billowed from the windows, only to disappear innocuously into the night sky. Embers floated above our heads like stars. I could feel the heat from as far as our mailbox. Standing alone and just watching was the only thing I could do. I imagined I was back at that bonfire, where sometimes things just got a little out of hand, like it had with some neighbor's cousin’s friend, but things were fine in the end. Just a cautionary tale. It was too late for that by then.
I was sobbing, my tears distorting my view of the fire. I pretended it was more like a kaleidoscopic scene than my house collapsing on itself.
The wood crackled and split under the inferno. It looked very natural. It was cleansing. I don't know why I wondered if it was a bad thing.
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