Language lover, art enthusiast, and tea aficionado, Catherine Jones is a college professor and writer of novels, poetry, and non-fiction. You can follow her writing adventures on Twitter @catjanejones.
Slam
Father used to slam things. Beers, doors, people, if they happened to get in the way. I’d hide in the bathroom, sitting on the cold tile floor with my head in between my knees. All the doors in the house were smashed off their hinges. Locks exploded into useless metal pins.
Slam. And again for good measure.
I’m angry. I curse at the top of my lungs. I climb out and slam the door to the car as hard as I can. I stalk up the stairs to the muffled sounds of my son’s cries and slam the front door. I move to the bedroom and slam that door too, even though there is no one inside the house to hear me. I open the door and slam it again and again, so hard that the door pushes out past its frame, the wood warped over the doorframe. I beat the door with the palm of my open hand and then with my fist. I grab the knob and find I can’t open the door. I’m stuck inside.
Slam. I have a lot of things to say to my husband. About him not listening to me, making me angry, and forcing me to get to the point where I scare our son. He could see I was losing control and he did nothing to deescalate the situation. And now my baby’s crying.
When he finally pushes the door back into its frame correctly so I can get out I don’t say any of those things; instead, my eyes fill with tears and I whisper I’m sorry I got so angry.
“I just don’t want our son to tell his wife stories like the ones you’ve told me about your father,” he says, holding me limply, looking away as he says it.
Slam. Right between the eyes.
Woman
When she was eleven she felt something slide out of her like diaphanous jelly. When she checked her underwear, it was spotted pink. You’re a woman now, her mother said with a touch of sadness, handing her a thick white pad the shape of the lake in their backyard, folded up in a cotton candy colored wrapper. You can have a baby. And the girl-woman wept because she didn’t fully understand what that meant.
When she was thirty-nine she felt the world slip out of her like muddled paint colors. When she checked her underwear, it was rusty red. You’re not a woman now, the voice in her head said with a touch of horror, handing her a future that looked like a blank piece of paper. You can’t have a baby. And the woman wept because she fully understood what that meant.