green means go. | pt. 1

April 17, 1968. The kitchen light laid its square beam on the hallway carpet, exposing a mess of pebbles, cheerios, and dog hair. I was supposed to vacuum yesterday. I guess I forgot. I stand in the dark next to the doorway, my hair plastered to my forehead and cheeks from a nightmare-induced sweat. The wallpaper absorbs the heat. My mother is sitting at the dining room table sorting through the newspaper. She always skips the police reports and obituaries. "Too much problems in the world as it is. Don't need to read about it." I can smell the bacon crackling on the stove. The boiling water for the eggs sends the pot into a seizure. She gets up and turns down the heat. Her shadow floats across the wall across from me and stops halfway. I hold my breath and close my eyes, still half-believing the childish idea that if I can't see me, neither can she.