#emotional compression

The Purple Glass‘It has no use’”, my mother said, when she took the purple glassfrom the highest shelfand placed it in my trembling left hand.Too small for flowersand shallow for wine,mellow and musky,the color of wilting violetswithering to the thinnest lavender essence. Yet, it mirrored itself in my bedroom window— a soft amethyst washin the Tennessee sunset.I remember her night gown bright as…

Rest StopDriving three hours north I needed to stop for bowel relief, gas and a vending‑machine Payday bar.A static‑voiced Otis Redding cutoffed with the ignition, the door closing shut, yielding to the ventilated drone of the rest‑area lobby—a vent’s thin rattle making me shiver the same way the free maps in the brochure rack tick against the heat vent.An arrow pointed west to the men’s room,…

TICONDEROGABite marks first—the old Ticonderoga Number Twocarried them still,a nub of shedding pink for an eraser,a dull lead point.I picked it upand it fit comfortablyin my hand,the gouged bodyperfectly matching my bite,the flaking yellow paintand varnish overcoatthat neededto be spit outwith every crunch—its woodstill on my tongue.ThenI broke itcleanly in the middle.