Mantra

She turned a gorilla into a lily pad when she was six. She’d just watched King Kong from the landing when her parents thought she was asleep. She snuck back into bed before they caught her, but she couldn’t get that gorilla out of her head. “Gorilla,” she repeated to herself, listening to the way the word slid off her tongue. “Gorillagorillagorillagollilla …. Lillalilla … lily pad.” She fell asleep thinking of frogs jumping on white-flowered lily pads.

When her first marriage ended she repeated “divorce” over and over until the first syllable became the last (divorcedivorcedivorsdivorsdy … vorsdy) and became less threatening. When it came to a custody battle over her son, she dealt with it the same way: custodycustodycustody … custardy.

Sitting in her car outside the doctor’s office, she fights her latest fear:
“Abnormalabnormalabnormalabnormal…”

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Thunderstorm

Thunder sounds louder in the mountains. Because you’re closer to God, my mother used to say. I’m still not sure if that was supposed to make me feel better or not. The power went out an hour ago. Mom lit scented candles with hands that shook. I start to wash the dishes.

“Stop it,” Mom says. “You’re making me nervous.”

I abandon the sink of bubbles glistening in the candlelight and sit down at the kitchen table across from her. She’s biting her fingernails, the way she always used to tell me not to. I reach over and take her hand. I feel the callus on her palm just below her wedding ring. The candles smell like the ashes of roses.