Photo Album

Molly. Age eight. Alabama squealing catching bugs and falling stars. Ice cream man painting sidewalks. Tree house. Busted Barbie dolls. Big people. Shoveling the walk with dad. Matinee movies with mom. Yellow bus, black dress, purple polka dots. Nightmares about boys. Box fan. Swamp stench and crocodiles. Lumpy waffles, hunks of unmelted butter. Seeing crippled swans at zoo taking long walks hyperventilating.

Molly. Age ten. Colorado. A suitcase next to a duffle bag. Two brown moving boxes marked with dad’s name and some new address. Summer camp, grape drink, black french fries. Talk radio. Snow days. Falling stars. Dad’s sit-down lawnmower still parked in the garage. Empty evening hallways. Staying up late. Mom getting sick. Crying. Taking drowsy baths soak pneumonia flu and dizziness, panic call the cops over mumps and unprettiness. An unbearable stomachache.

Molly. Age twelve. Oregon. The woods night cold snow fireplace. Falling stars. Scent of hickory chips smoldering. Wet birthing kittens. Sky with bright moon, television blaring loudly. Hardwood floors creaking, sewing machine needle speeding, taste of cherry pie and hot tea with milk. Cup of soup, cup of hot apple cider. Wrapped in a blanket. Mom snoring loud, dad back home cursing, photographs dangle from the wall total disarray kitchen. Dirty clothes piled colored heaps. Spider crawling ceiling rocking broken sofa chair. Toenail clippings. Pencil shavings. Box of yarn for quilt making. Stacks of books.

Molly. Age fourteen. Oregon. Singing in shower before school cartoons. Falling stars. Cheating on the big test, jump rope, running shoes. Dinosaurs in museum smell of gasoline. Pepperoni pizza. Dressing up like Joan of Ark for Halloween. Mom under thin paper dress, wheezing, choking, plastic tubes, liquid dripping through an IV in her arm. Asleep beside her with copies of Redbook in lap. The sound of heart monitors miss matched linoleum lining wait room corridor. White noise static buzzing ringing like a telephone.

Molly. Age sixteen. Mystery. Clear skin. Secret trip to Mexico with friends to shed sex anonymously. Bowling, new shoes, third place. Red pen. Scrabble. Walking to a dance drunk, puking, falling stupid with a stranger in the alleyway. Balancing act. Crying, skiing, learning piano. Tall buildings. Dirty streets. Bums. Sewer stink. Mom in the hospital bleeding. Beethoven. Talk of college drive-in movies. Volleyball tryouts. Falling Stars. Playing chess in a cafe, dissecting sharks. Cigarettes.

Molly. Age nineteen. Pennsylvania butterfly tattoo. A cutting board specimen sliced between glass displays mongoose birthing egg. Working burger joint grill, reading poetry in dark clothes, dedicated to the month of silence. Cobblestone. Delaware River. An old man at the public laundry waving his cock like a peeled potato. Meeting a celebrity. Switching seats on an airplane. Watching clouds dissipate cemetery. Mom’s casket. Eulogy. Mumbling room full of requiem puppets. Shining flowers, crying dad beyond speechless, pyrotechnics, acid rain, and fishnet stockings sway. Release the burning scent of her.

Chris Higgs has won an NEA/Nevada Arts Council Grant for screenwriting, and has worked on numerous film and television projects. Currently he is pursuing his MA in Creative Writing with a fellowship at the University of Nebraska.

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