March 19, 2007
Abomally rolled out of the guest bed and padded barefoot to the door. Her mother was a shroud in the dark hall, long white nightgown with frills around the neck and a blue bathrobe over it. Her face was washed, oily with moisturizer, and her hair was pinned back. Abomally knew those pins would be kicked out and twisted around by morning. All she wanted was to lean into her mother and release. To be a little girl again, crying and confiding. Her mother smiled, eyes crinkling with a shimmer of grease. “Can I see your room?” asked Abomally. "No."