Waterwash. Something last-named Waterwash fucked her up, pushed her to the wall and made her bruise before I was even conceived and ten years later another rendezvous in alcoholics anonymous would lead her to the wall again with me at age 12 stepping silly on sticky floors because a case of Corona was thrown in defense against a barstool situated before a petty regal marble countertop, installed by the man who cut his fingers off while installing hardwood floors in her dining room. This man taught me Heart of Gold on the guitar in a cape-cod entertainment room, 64 inch television set playing Degrassi in the background, seven-hour trips to Asheville in the back of both of our minds. She splayed herself to us, two hours into the drive refusing to get back into the car at a rest stop in Kentucky just almost at the real peaks of the Appalachian mountains. If they had been real at the point of her departure we may have taken her more seriously. Me dreaming about being a submissive man in the back of a dirty white Ford Escort, my brother making himself gag in a carseat to my right.
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