Discontent

We could hear her knocking down strands of cobweb from ceilings—sticky filaments, sacs of eggs—as we woke most mornings to a worm of discontent. It lodged beneath the heart, rubbed our frayed nerves, gnawed at the gut, spleen, ovaries. Filth was Mom's first enemy, so each day began with ritual cleaning: the stab and sweep of the broom down the dark hall, over the stained and scratched oak floors. For weeks, she held her dust mop one-handed, and with the other cupped a hernia, while she swore at us kids in that hard voice—a litany of our sins and failures: sloth, stupidity, secrecy. We watched her smash the spiders that ran, herky-jerky, along the baseboards, while we ran, too. Glaring at each other, we gathered up the scattered laundry, our father’s shoes, his newspapers and tools, our books, drawings, music, sweatshirts, and jackets, whatever we’d left lying around. We were guilty, but good at evasion. We cultivated shrewish or obsessive behaviors of our own: my tough older sister sneered and stalked out of the house to meet her boyfriend; my sweet younger sister trembled and cried, comforted by one of our many dogs. I slammed doors, pounded them with my fists, screamed, “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” She couldn’t leave us alone. She loved us too much. Though we were quick, she was quicker. Her words stung. We must have deserved it.