Saturday June 3, 2017
From the Microsoft home-screen
Huddled in the closet where your mother keeps bleach, baking soda, laundry detergent, you whisper in my ear that there’s something you need to show me.
I’m wearing purple shorts and a black T-shirt with Phantom of the Opera on it. You’re wearing jean shorts and a stained white hoodie.
“I ate a freezee in less than thirty seconds,” you’d told me earlier, referencing the orange drips. They look like tears, I’d thought, before running to the washroom to check if I’d peed a few drips – sisters.
It’s dark, except for the slit of light reaching under the door. You reach for the button of your shorts.
Sunday May 7, 2017
From a tweet by Mara Wilson
The sweet sluttery of fingering through your sister’s closet, touching the dewy tank tops in maroon, purple and grey, the high-waisted jeans, the eyelet dress that you know for a fact she got for thirty-two dollars at the thrift store in Kingston. It’s a drug you can’t quit – touching her stuff – and you wonder about the morality of it, the fairness of it, the injustice of it. You know that every time you do it, you cross a boundary. You know that. But you keep doing it.
Saturday February 25, 2017
milk and honey
When I was 7 my mother babysat a boy named Benjamin who was my age, and his two younger brothers. Ben had white blond hair and white blond eyebrows and he swore like a sailor. He had a lot of excess saliva, always pooling at the base of his tongue so when he spoke he shot out spurts or sometimes entire globules of spit. I thought this made him cute. I thought his boyish hair was something to brag about. One day we were playing in my room and Benjamin asked if we could sit in my closet. I didn’t know what he wanted to do but I do know that going into the closet was slightly wrong. It felt bad. I wanted to be bad with Benjamin. We brought Barbies and then sat in there on the floor with the lights on just staring at each other. Ben suggested that we show each other our private parts and I thought, yeah, alright, I don’t see why not.
Wednesday January 15, 2014
the 504 stop announcement
In our house on Atlantic Ave., my mother had a walk-in closet. I didn’t think we were rich enough for that kind of thing. It was organized like a person might who was really into fashion, which my mother was not. Sashes on hooks according to colour, long skirts in the blue and purple palate, necklaces both long and short on tiny brass hands sitting on top of the chest of drawers that held her bras and underwear. My mother would put on her amber perfume before going out on a date with my father. She would put the silver barrettes in her hair and draw on eyeliner with her brown stick from The Body Shop.