
Swing Low
Aug 25, 2017 · 1 min read
I keep dreaming of my mother, sitting in the dark near the fish tank in my childhood bedroom. I am relentless, getting out of bed every few minutes…
“I’m not tired.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“It’s too hot.”
Each time she would look at me, calmly. Wearily.
“Get back in bed.”
She had already read to me. She had already sung “Swing low, sweet chariot”.
Probably a few times.
She ignores my restlessness as I toss and turn, only looking at the fish tank’s glow in the dark. The black mollies and the large plecostomus are specks of black in the green glow.
She was younger than I am now.
I imagine her, a tired smile, as she watches the black mollies eat their children.