We grew up in a greenhouse. Where the pale abyss of the ocean ate at the sand like a roach, where my mother left us stranded. The world was different then: everything a stain of blue hues and silver bleach. My sister’s skin morphed into sandpaper, smelling of fumes and sour cider. I watched this happen. She grew more ill with each day, until she resembled nothing but a wet sponge, a small roach with the belly of a ripe peach. I wasn’t worried.
We grew up in a greenhouse. Buried our mother’s bones in the yard until they grew into an apple orchard, towering over us like lampposts – like light, like telephone wire. We had seen her death coming. The paper always announced murder twenty-five hours prior. For the final supper, we ate with forks in our elbows, a big meal of spices and sauces.
We grew up in a greenhouse. The world was different then! Plastered our necks with orange marmalade, dipped our fingertips in honey and made the fish lick them. We grew up in a greenhouse, our liver a glass vase, our tongues: black worms floating in the Atlantic.
Iryna Klishch is a young emerging author currently studying Creative Writing at Denison University. She hopes her words find you.