The Summer My Mother Died

By Katie Svedman

our redneck neighbors dug up the Bougainvillea
bushes and their dead dog with it, the bones staying
strewn around the pool screen until the new 
dogs buried them all again. Sickly sweet rotting

petals mingle with the red tide tang marching
off the beaches like a middle-aged divorcee late
for happy hour. The sulfurous and rotten fish 
give way when I dig my toes between their ribs 

because I want to see their eyes bulge out like my 
mother always warned would happen to me if I 
sneezed with my eyes open. The sun would challenge 
me to a staring contest until I felt that familiar 

tickle so I could hold my eyelids open, two LED beams, 
waiting to finally prove her wrong. Teenagers doused 
in Sun Bum tanning oil slither down the beaches, 
like otters caught in the Deepwater Horizon disaster, 

donning their lowrise bikinis and perfectly timed hair 
flips, while I sit in my denim cutoffs and too small 
Justice tops. They look so tough, I wonder if under 
their triangle cut tops they’ve fit an entire suit 

of armor. In the mirror I practice the way I’ll flitter 
my eyelashes when I’m sixteen so I can feel bulletproof 
too, before more Jekyll and Hyde types draped in scrubs 
waltz in the open door with hot off the press bad 

news. Pine needles seem to taunt me now, and the pollen 
that settles across my stomach when I lie outside reminds 
me of the powders I found in her sock drawer. I sneak 
into the spice cabinet at night and screw the cap off 

the almond extract because it smells as acidic and sterile 
as her breath. I don’t think I can go back to the third 
grade in August when I understand bigger things now, 
like the urge to squish a frog in the palm of your hand.

Katie Svedman (she/her) is a recent graduate of Florida State University, with a bachelor’s in theatre and environmental studies. She is currently based in Sarasota, FL, though is hoping to relocate to Chicago to pursue a career in performance.