Cackle

by Rachel Harrison

My mother died when I was five years old, and my early years of bows and lace dresses, tea parties and dolls, died with her. My dad is a former soldier who worked construction and didn’t have the time or patience for a daughter, especially one with such “feminine” interests. No taking me to my beloved ballet lessons. No Barbies. No makeup. It was school, microwave dinners in front of the TV to avoid conversation, chores, sleep. I did the dishes, the laundry, all of the cleaning. I could watch sports with him on the weekends, but I couldn’t comment, and if his team lost, I knew to get out of his way. It sounds worse than it was. He wasn’t stern or unfriendly. He mostly didn’t know what to do with me or what to say. I’m sure his grief was a contributing factor.

Defending a male for controlling a female. This is letting him off the hook and minimizing his actions.

Narratives change when someone dies, especially young and tragically. Their history transforms. It transcends reality, into something more romantic.

It’s a new kind of sadness. Who knew it came in so many varieties? That it had such range?

I’d forgotten the difference between choosing not to participate and being excluded.

“I fancy myself ranunculus.”

This flower translates to “little frog” interesting because she’s been talking to a little frog in front of her new home

I wonder how much of a woman’s life is spent this way. Enduring. Waiting for enjoyment or, fuck it, death.

I know what it’s like not to have to endure. I know what it’s like to manifest things through sheer force of will. I’ve smashed teacups, broken glass, forced bones into someone’s mouth. I’ve made these things happen with my mind. Manipulated the physical world with my thoughts, with my desires.

I tug gently at the ribbon and undo the neat bow. I set the satin aside, folding it up and placing it behind me on my pillow. I open the box. Inside is a new dress. A birthday dress. It’s a pale yellowy gold, with lacy sleeves and a corset back. I put it on immediately. I admire myself in the full-length mirror. I run my hands over the fabric, over my body, over my skin. My face. My brilliant nose. My pretty eyes. My ample cheeks. I get my hairbrush. It has a thin silver handle engraved with flowers. I carefully lower myself to my knees, making sure the dress doesn’t wrinkle. I fan it out around me. Then I brush my hair. I never used to take the time to brush my hair, but it really makes all the difference. Ralph is still blowing his party horn. “You don’t have to keep doing that,” I tell him. “Save some energy for the party.” He gets in one more blow before letting the horn fall from his mouth. He then crawls into bed and takes a quick nap. I check the time, and it’s disappointingly early. I change out of my dress

Creative and makes a statement with the I statements