My mother’s hands have turned to wings. Her hair, to feathers. Her pale complexion now red as blood, red as wine, every shade of every red in the universe. The bird. The bird. The bird. That’s all I can think about. Crawling into bed is like swimming through something thick and murky. My every limb weighed down. Brain hazy with sleep deprivation. Eyes aching, the periphery of my vision dull and watery. I should be able to sleep. I’m exhausted. But the moment I close my eyes, they flutter. I have to strain to keep them shut. The bird the bird the bird. My mother the bird.
