|
The Gift |
in a separate, sterile room they
demonstrated. my mom must
have held the orange in one hand, an alien
syringe in the other—or set its stronger-than-mine
five and a half year old skin on a counter to
bleed fructose.
we don’t remember, weren’t there. we only
watch, with dad. by my ninth birth
day, we lost the toys they bought then
brought us, no longer myself, alone—too young for
flowers, they can read him cards. to the
rescue, batmobile. this present was sent
unseen, a very different state. it was the worst
video game ever: you had to talk with doctors, avoid candy,
give shots, you can only jump, cower, or move forward.
I cried when I was angry, because I was not sad. I cried
often. yet, when my red face swelled, it was still impossible
to get what I wanted. but sometimes I got locked
in my room. around twelve or thirteen I learned
that florida’s venereal soil was infected with burning red
fire ants. carefully, if I dug my hand into the
Maxwell House tin, sneaking out one day’s worth of
needles, I could incise the mud dauber’s end. I head
out into the deed-restricted deathscape, three weapons and a
lethal concoction. water would be enough—enough to
drown them, but I add an unhealthy dose of windex and red food
coloring. finding one, I draw from my cup a driveway’s future tears.
Then I can decide who gets my gift and who goes on.
copyright 2007
Seth
Woolf |
