door one; a boy

I started drinking coffee in the 5th grade with a woman I believed to be my grandmother; with cream and sugar and a ghost in the room. I remembered Sammy lighting a cigarette and sucking on it with bright, red lips, while her free hand attempted to wave the smoke away from me. I remember I felt older than ten.

“More cookies?” she asked.

I nodded yes, and she extended a small plate towards me. I noticed her old, wrinkled hands accented with brown dots, and her hair dyed too black over her pale face. She inhaled deeply from her cigarette, which sparked the small embers, so they jumped to life. The room filled with a haze that circled and wrapped around itself-snakelike, easing slowly up toward the ceiling fan. 

My heart jumped when I imagined someone else standing in the small trailer. Beyond the green plant stretching and dangling over the bookshelf, past the roll-top desk lined with glass knick-knacks, on the far side of the black and white photographs which hung on the wall, in the corner, a shadow of a person seemed to watch me.

 

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