I see her at dinner the night before. Drugged and crazy, her eyes meet with mine for a millisecond. Giant, watery-blue orbs. Above heavy, heavy, purple bags. Wildly bloodshot. Threatening. Dangerous.



I know that to contend with her would be impossible. Let it slip. Just play with the Spaghetti O’s. Oops . . . one slipped off my spoon . . . dropped PLOP on the floor. It seems so loud only because it’s so quiet right now. Just breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Pick up the pasta. Hmm . . . try to break it in half. It slipped again! Go on in such a manner until she slides away from the table, silently, eerily, and collapses on the sofa with a desperate, obnoxious grunt.



Finally I can leave. I scoop the untouched, half-cooked, cold canned dinner into the snow outside. I like to watch the snow melt. I think it’s a brighter horizon.



I walk into my room. Trip on carpet fray, as always. Pull out elastics, along with hair. Ouch! French braids hurt--that’s one thing she’s good at. Kick off slippers with the gaping hole at the right big toe. Rub eyes with my fists. Flop in bed. Sleep.



Dawn comes like a scared pigeon, just comes over you and next thing you know, you’ve got a bird in your face and some white, sticky stuff on your c . . . cc . . . ccccoldd fleece jacket.



I’m getting ready for school now, Mom. Can you hear me? You’re usually up all night when you’re like that. I mean, off and on. You know what I mean. Hold on, you’re still on the couch?



I run to school the speed of light.