While I was still in nursery school,
I remember running out my bedroom
and down the dark hall, upset,
tired, too itchy to sleep,
straight to my mother.
The shock of lights in the middle of the night.
The bathroom filled with kitchen smells
during my oatmeal bath, made me wonder
if I would smell like breakfast food forever.
There was lotion, and there was
“don’t scratch,” but I don’t remember
who I got the chicken pox from,
or what it was like to have the first spot,
a single red dot blooming under my left
“chicken wing bone” on my back.
Although I don’t remember it,
I have and love the story of my mother
scratching this spot until it bled, trying to make me happy.
~Rachel Malis is a senior at GW majoring in Women's Studies and English and Creative Writing. After graduation, she will be heading out to ASU to do a Masters of Fine Arts program.
