What do I know of the mother who left when I was two? Bank teller, smoked like a chimney, twenty years a disco queen, and a pet duck named Mrs. Peterson.
What did she gift me? Drop-in visits I can count on one hand, how to fold a plastic grocery bag, a carton of cigarettes for my junkie ex-boyfriend, and three words in answer to why she was never there:
I, don’t, know.
I devour it all. The chimney, the duck, the plastic bag… The three words go down like cheap cardboard, falling, falling into the void of my stomach.
Michelle Wilson’s words have appeared in Entropy Squared, 50-Word Stories, 101 Words, Literally Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood, among others. She lives in Miami Beach, Florida. Sometimes, she can be found at https://medium.com/@wilsmk