The Year My Mother Was Sick
by Leeanna Barfield
I lived on a gravelly street, too small
even for trick-or-treaters, although
we bought candy every year.
One door down from a fat orange cat.
Two doors down from a stranger’s high school.
My brother and I could pace for days
around that school, talking.
Our house too cramped for a family
of eight—sound
carried too well. Words
pitched across like that jelly jar skidding
shards into crevices.
Sometimes I would skateboard
on the limited smooth surfaces
around the neighborhood. I never fell,
because I was too afraid. We found
a library—my brother and I—tucked
behind the high school. The door
shouldn’t have been unlocked, said my dad,
but we went back anyway
until they saw us on the security camera
and locked us out. For a moment,
we got to explore the hoard intended
for other kids and hide
from the loud voices and silent figure
in bed at home. After the eight of us became seven,
my brother and I walked around the school track
for hours into the silent nights as the streetlights
turned to golden drops in the starless city sky.
Leeanna Barfield is a creative writing major with a minor in vocal music performance. She is a Scorpio and an INFP, so all her personality memes and horoscopes contradict each other. She is also an enthusiastic supporter of musical theater.