Catastrophe
Mother cursed me the day
my tiny fingers
slide the spokes
of the umbrella
up the long metal
shaft, the click of its
mechanism holding fort—
tinny and satisfying,
as the bright blue
water-resistant
parachute came alive.
She looked at me in horror.
What had I done?
Any number of catastrophes
would surely fall from the sky
ruining everything
she had worked for
in life.
The remaining years
of my life were riddled
with hunched shoulders,
a wet neck, and a body
full of fear.
Aleathia Drehmer
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