It Was a Cottonmouth

It was a cottonmouth they said. I pictured a dentist pushing a bunch of cotton in my mouth. After they had put my gums through torture. “I hate cottonmouths” I said. “I didn’t think you knew what they were,” my mother replied. “You take me to one once a year, don’t you?” I wailed. My mother’s friend gave my mother a strange look and rushed away. It was years before I understood why.