CYCLES - kindra j. ferriabough

I can’t find my mother again. And it’s not because she’s dirt old; it’s because she’s hiding. She always hides when it’s time for her medication. But I always find her because she always falls asleep wherever she hides. She snores loud.

This time I look at the dog. “Do you know where my mommy is?” I coo. But the dog is in heat. She doesn’t give a shit. She climbs on the couch and drops her squeaky toy gently on the cushion. She takes the throw in her mouth and covers the toy.

I’ve lived with my mother for a long time so I’m old too. I check the cabinets, the refrigerator, in the stove. I cross the living room and the dog humps my leg all the way up the stairs. I wonder what the fuck is wrong with everybody.

Upstairs I follow the snores into the bathroom. I pull back the curtains to see her sleeping in the tub. Her mouth is open and she doesn’t have her dentures in so she is drooling, gurgling even. I change her diaper right there. My breasts swell with milk but I cannot help it.

Kindra J. Ferriabough
David Copperfield
Charles Dickens