Colors

Her body was soft again. She ate at night, Xmas truffles, candy canes from the grocery store, sugared dates. Her son lay at the foot of her bed, sleeping, a small Spiderman. This night, she was eating caramels an old friend had sent. The bed was a nest. There were tangled blankets, and pieces of a superhero puzzle, and a book about weathervanes. Outside it was raining, and she listened. Things felt hot and close. The smeared yellow light from the plastic Xmas tree, and her long flannel pajamas, and the space heater blasting. She dug the sweet soft stuff out of her fingernails with her teeth. She bit the fatty cushion of her thumb. She wanted to throb. She remembered pushing her tongue up under a loose tooth, years ago, how that felt. Her teeth ached.

She felt his forehead, but it was not hot. His damp hair smelled like soft bananas, Curious George shampoo. Today he had said, purple is a sad color. Orange is an argument color.

He fell asleep making fists. When he was an infant, he'd hidden their things under his blankets...his father's wallet, her pink scarf. Now he slept in his Spiderman mask, fists uncurling. His father's things were mostly gone. She listened to him breathe. Outside, the rain was striking, turning to sleet.