She forgets, distracts easily, talking passionately and at lengths.
Where minutes turn into deserted moments of anger.
She wants her own happiness and yours, but sabotages both like a plate tossed half-mindedly into the kitchen sink upon a stack of other dishes – it clatters and breaks.
In truth, her eyes are on her children, always.
They are her creation and designed-influence on the world; only she raised them as a different person and now sick in her head, they abandoned her.
Her relationship with herself is the pinnacle, the ever-turning edge of a coin.
The foundation of all things creatively broken, even to herself – unknown.
In the hallway across from their door a glass aquarium housed ten or more rats to be sold as pets. In addition to the pet business, Jessie’s mother was a part-time amateur body builder who managed a large and impressive athletic club.
The walls were painted rental-home white and had an inherent darkness with a piss-yellow glow that came from the kitchen. In Jessie’s bedroom, board games toppled onto each other spilling out of a disorganized closet to the foot of twin mattresses push against each other where she and her sister Ellie slept.
Every night the girls, who were four years apart in age, sleep intertwined. The younger sister was a thumb sucker and like most thumb suckers she paired her habit with the physical rubbing of something soft between her fingers. She rubbed the velvety soft earlobes of people. And the touch of her tiny fingers became a welcome comfort to me on the nights I stayed.