MY SON TO HIS THERAPIST: by Mary Elzabeth Lee

Once, after she had swallowed the last of her six-dollar wine, she told me our family had a curse. I began to dream of witches harvesting rampion and tricksters hocking spinning wheels. I checked myself for patches of fur, and bit my nails ‘til they bled, fearing they’d become talons. She only mentioned the curse again in heated hushed words to my grandmother whenever God snuck his way into their long-distance phone calls. I’ve spent my life watching her. In wait.

It’s the reason why her eyes dart like mice across the floorboards, why she watches my father carefully as he reads Lolita, why I was never allowed to play house with the girls.

Mary Elzabeth Lee enjoys sharp cheeses, sharp tongues, and sharper wits. She lives in Red Lion, Pennsylvania and attends Penn State York where she is the student editor of Any Other Word.

Back to Issue 1: Sharp Things

Leave a Reply