When I was six, I opened the door of a friend’s mobile home one afternoon and almost stepped on a snake. He was curled up on the porch a few dozen inches from my bare feet, basking in the late day Florida sunshine. He had alternating bands of red and yellow and black that glistened in the light, his black nose almost vanishing against the black of the doormat. As I considered him, my mom peeked her head over my shoulder. Most mothers would have screamed, but mine liked snakes.
What’s that rhyme again? she said.