The dinners she prepares become less enticing, less suited for me. In fact, she begins cooking innards of various cattle, sheep and cows mostly, but sometimes I’m not sure what we’re eating. Grease pools atop soups of indeterminate innards and I clear it away with a spoon, digging for anything recognizable. I eat the ends of carrots and hunks of mushroom gone slimy with age. I can’t complain because that would call attention to the meal and I don’t want her to quit preparing them for me. If I mentioned the decline in quality, it’d be clear that I know she’s no longer cooking for me, catering to my needs. She’s cooking to spite me and I am spited, but I don’t want her to see that. I don’t want things to end. I don’t want to leave and I’m not going to. This perfect house is my house.
And the house remains perfect. It is more perfect each day. I like to lean against the wall, its gentle spherical curve holding my body. It’s cold, but pleasantly so. The wall is soft even as it holds its shape and supports my weight. If I press a hand into it, the walls yields to me, but no permanent damage is done. The house remains, but grows in size the longer I live in it. My movements create a need for space, which the house responds to. I find new nooks and crannies, new cupboards, new unexplored spaces. Sometimes just a drawer, but a drawer can be exciting. I pull the drawer out, dump its contents onto the floor, and run my hands over the drawer, inside and out, checking for rough spots, but it’s such a smooth drawer. Even this little unexpected drawer is perfectly manufactured to increase my happiness and satisfaction. Inside the drawer and now sprawled across the floor are little things my mother would use. Spare buttons and thread in black and navy. A pouch of pens, pencils, and erasers. Some swatches of material, blue and red. A few envelopes with various papers, a deed to the house among them. The deed isn’t printed but is handwritten and difficult to read. My mother’s name is on it. My name is below her name, scrawled at a tilt. Perhaps in the event of my mother’s death the house would
Brandi Wells | 11