Cross & Pile (call it in the air), Grace Garwood [little readers .txt] 📗

My mother put my hair in pigtails. She was still braiding my sister’s when I twisted the eye-level doorknob and found my kitten, Coffee, stumbling headless across our broken concrete porch. Neither dead nor alive, my senses drowned in an earth-rich cocktail of blood, guts and freshly cut summer grass.

My father buried Coffee when the sun was highest in the sky and showed me where the fresh cut air hung deadly on the grave.

The scent forever conjures headless stumbling back to life with my sister screaming ragged, her hair half-braided, in the doorway of our little country house.

Mr.D.e woke at 9:30 reflecting precision and accuracy. He had superb sight, hearing, taste and smell. His limbs were functional as well.
Tradition meant quality to Mr. D.e. He flossed with finely waxed cinnamint, the thread finding grooves pristine and cavity free. His mouthwash, firmly gargled and spit, was a peroxide peppermint. His toothbrush did not vibrate or shake as he swirled in thirty-second counts by side, by row, by tooth, by tongue.
Then he did his final rinse, inspected the results with confidence and stepped into the shower to clear his conscience with a Smith & Wesson compact semiautomatic.

The brain says water: hold me under until thoughts stop thrashing and float peacefully out to see.
The body says no.

The brain says fire: hold me over until thoughts throb and revel in the deep dark woods.
The body says no.

The brain says air: hold the fumes until thoughts sterilize the tile sink and tub.
The body says no.

The brain says solid: I’m dry as a bone.
The body says better bone than mass sponge mess.
The brain says clearly: you have never heard of gelatin or falling out of trees.
The body says now we’re talking.

Text: Grace Garwood
Images: Grace Garwood
Publication Date: 07-05-2012

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