Gone

Amy London

The boxes stared at me like ravenous vultures, roosting together since my mother’s death. I didn’t want to dig through them today, pull out the leftover, misshapen pieces of her life, and try to fit them into mine. But to avoid an excessive amount of homework, I did. That, and I have always had a thing about clutter.

Why, after 72 years, are there only five cardboard boxes? I rescued them after my father casually mentioned they were being donated to the local women’s shelter. Casually, as in disconnected, not discounting. Grief grabs us all by the throat with a varied grip. 

Mine tested its strength later when I was taking out the trash. I tossed the empty bin down, and my roommate said I had an attitude. 

Of course, I thought. Who the hell wants to take out the trash? Let alone yours mixed with mine.

I stopped and took a breath. 

“I’m going through my mom’s stuff,” I told her. “And I think it’s kind of hard on me.” 

The emotional blanket slithered its arms around me, and I had an overwhelming urge to collapse to the ground and cry. I’d struck against something: the truth hiding in the hole of my heart.

Instead, I finished emptying the trash—adding my mother’s discarded belongings—hoping to throw away the rest of my feelings for the night.

When the Salve Stopped the Bleeding

Amy London

This piece was originally published in The Nasiona

CLICK. REWIND. The VCR whirs and my mind starts mediating. 

Just one more time. 

The actress captures my eleven-year-old mind. Her porcelain skin—exquisite; long black hair—luxurious; strong sullen voice—sensuous.

My eyes bounce around and behind me. Take the temperature. Check for fluctuations around the room. 

Mother approves of changing appearances. Father overlooks what we were like before. 

Fingers tremble toward the PLAY button. 

Why does my stomach flutter?

Six years later, the word lesbian seeps out sideways like lava. Mother denies it; Father ignores it; I try to outrun it.

For now I bury it. 

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