Brandi Wells | 7
over and hiding parts of me from myself. My mother would crawl up the bed, swaying and smiling at me. I couldn’t tell if she was there to hurt me or tell me a story, because a smile is dangerous. But sometimes when she crawled up the bed, slithering almost unbelievably, she would hold me and kiss my cheek and tell me some story of her childhood I’d heard hundreds of times before.
After my mother’s prolonged absence from my life, small things have changed. Her hair has grown long, noticeably unbrushed, filled with leaves, straw, and debris. Twigs are knotted into her hair and dangle around her shoulders or down her back. Her eyes are ringed in black liner, deeply smudged. Her body has become somehow diminished and frail. But the house is perfect. My steps are quicker. My stride is so long that I’m nearly airborne, soaring over thick uncut brush and bushes and straw. The air is cold and I wonder if my body moves quicker through cold air. Everything is constricted so there are fewer molecules to get in my way.
The house is as perfect on the inside as it is on the outside. Everywhere I look there are glass fruits and baked goods, painted lightly so they remain see-through, which emphasizes their delicate nature. I press glass oranges and pears to my face to feel how cool and smooth they are. I scoop up handfuls of cherries and let them slide between my fingers and clink back into their serving dish. I hold an oversized glass cupcake tight against my abdomen and I think about how different food feels against either side of my skin. Once consumed, food feels different or at least the way I can touch or sense the food has shifted. A table is already set for me. Red wine laps at rims of huge glasses and my mother has prepared all my favorites. Chipped beef on garlic toast and pizza with cheddar cheese instead of mozzarella. I sleep in a perfect bed and when I wake she has made layer cakes with too many layers to easily count. All day she bakes croissants and cookies, crepes and custards. My favorite treats are the homemade