The Rocking Chair rocked. The friction upon the cream shag stained with cheap vodka and grape Kool-Aid. Thrift store furniture. I remember two. The first rocking chair was hacked to pieces a combination of drywall and the floor. The second rocking chair of real fucking wood. She felt mighty. She lived a few years so I was told with an ICD. Our Father who should be banned from Heaven broke as fuck. My Big Sis and I are humiliated on speed dial. I am ascending. The severity of our trauma. Four Generations of Trauma. Religion.
Death Row. The long corridor. One hanging lamp. Her feet suction cups.
Electrocution.
Amen.
Her mourning coffee 