Chellis
My fight didn’t say one day at a time: my mama said it, my aunts said it, my damn uncle James said it.
by ethan risinger
But when I laid on the steel of the mat, my head hitting hard on the steel, my legs cold and shivering from the wet cell, the slop tray they gave me, the shackles on my feet and legs and hands, I closed my eyes and looked up at the grey walls that were caving in on me and said thank God for one day at a time.
Chellis was told once by her father that her mother hits him in ways she can’t see yet. Chellis can’t see very far. It’s the orbs, the shiny part like on a toad’s eye too. They won’t let her stretch her eyelids to see the whole sun. Chellis likes how bleach smells now. Bleach used to scare her and make her feet wince. Chellis’ mother makes big splashes with it in front of Chellis’ bedroom door. One time, Chellis was looking at a picture book with photos taped in it. There aren’t any photos of Chellis in there, but everyone looks pretty. In the photo book two people were playing a game with a racquet and a fence. Chellis doesn’t know who they are, but they are looking at each other and have red on the top of their cheeks. Chellis’ mother caught her hugging the pictures of the people near the fence.
92
93
