|
| |
Thyroid Storms
She started crying in the middle of rages—
not the soft kind, but sharp,
like she’d cut herself on something
I couldn’t see.
She slammed drawers.
Shouted at a spoon.
Broke a plate and sobbed
as if the world had cracked with it.
Before she left,
my mother filled the kitchen with notes
written on paper towels—
taped to the cupboards,
the countertops, the fridge.
I couldn’t read,
but I knew they were important—
squares of paper whispering rules
for someone to follow.
And then she was gone.
We went to see her
in a hospital that smelled
like bleach and stillness.
She didn’t get up—
just sat in a wheelchair
with a white bandage
wrapped around her throat
like she’d tried to swallow something
that wouldn’t go down.
After that,
she came home quiet.
No more yelling.
No more crying jags.
She took down the notes,
made my lunch
and folded the laundry
like nothing had happened—
like maybe I dreamed it.
I didn’t ask why, and she didn’t say.
But I tried not to spill things.
I tried not to be loud.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
|
|