Martha  

The tinsel stayed tacked to the wall long after Mother had vacuumed up the balsam needles. It hung draped between sconces as I became a boy of twelve instead of eleven, and Sister bore her teeth to ten. Scraps of ribbons gone out with the garbage.

Our terrier once ingested a small metal camping spoon and the veterinarian had to open her belly like the seat flap on a onesie, but without the clean button closure. Martha recovered admirably as I became thirteen instead of twelve. Rummaging through dredged up youth and scouring through white space.

Mother spent the next five years vacuuming until evergreen and cellophane jammed up the mechanism and the bag exploded, confetti dusting the bare patches of carpet in the living room. Martha regurgitated pots and pamphlets until Mother kicked her out into the garden.

Sarah Johnson is a writer, reader, and nonprofit professional from Vermont. She graduated from Bennington College with a BA in literature, and currently works as a Community Support Specialist for Hugo House for the last five years. You can find her writing at SHARK REEF, The Coil, and others. In her free time she is an avid hiker, knitter, and guitar player.