What I remember probably isn’t what happened,
but what happened as seen through a telescope
or a microscope or a kaleidoscope. I stood on
the stool my dad built from scrap wood so my sister
and I could brush our teeth and spit in the sink.
Or maybe it wasn’t scrap wood, but wood bought
expressly for this purpose, for seeing my own face
in the mirror as one cheek and then the other
bulged and unbulged with the brush strokes.
The door folded like an accordion and was more
screen than door. Or maybe there was a real door.
I don’t know. I just remember the privacy being
only pretend privacy. I remember being unable
to lock myself in or anyone else out, but that can’t
be right. What five-year-old thinks of locks?
Maybe I was six or seven. Maybe I was twenty-two.
The door either opened or was already open,
and my mother rushed in behind me and bent over
the toilet. I watched her in the mirror. No, I turned
to her, toothbrush in mouth. No, I averted my eyes
and tried not to gag as she wretched and poured
the wine back out of her mouth and into the bowl.
I stared at myself in the mirror, afraid to move,
afraid to spit, afraid she’d notice me. She didn’t
notice me. She did notice me. She apologized
and cried. I cried and apologized. We both
ignored each other and pretended nothing
had happened. Nothing had happened.
What happened? Something happened once
that made me hate the taste of toothpaste.
Fiction - ISSUE #28