where i end (sophie white), page one

"at night, my mother creaks.

the house creaks along with her. through our thin shared wall, i can hear the makings of my mother gurgle through her body, just like the water in the walls of the house. i hate the sound. in the daytime, it is covered, wrapped up in the radio and the wind and the low hum of the electricity. but at night, in the silence, her insides gush and she seems alive in a way that, during daylight, she does not.

sometimes in the morning we find her in places. we never see her move. we just come upon her. maybe she is coiled on the rug in the hall. that rug leads to the old front door--the front door that is never used. its handle was gone from before i can remember. without the handle, it is just a smooth rectangle of wood. the door doesn't need to be boarded up. when you reach for a handle and your hand swipes through nothing, it's as effective as any deadbolt. just as final. my mother, heaped before the front door that is not a door, looks like a thwarted escapee."