Laura Manuel
Moving Karin Defeated petunias droop to cracked concrete from a plastic pot. Their spindly arms hang and reach, hoping for a second chance. A story of frustration is etched on my sister’s door— deep scratches from a wheelchair forced through an uncooperative frame. I inhale bright rays before I enter a stale, nicotine-infused, television buzz. Karin is not dressed. She hunches over an iPad and taps bright colours on the screen. Her short hair sticks up in several directions like a satellite searching for a signal. The condo feels overly warm but Karin wears fleece pajama pants. A faded, green, Beaver Canoe t-shirt sits askew at her neckline to expose a bare shoulder. The Puritan in me rises up, red, shrill and old-fashioned. “Get dressed and wash up,” I think. “It’s nearly noon!” I swallow the scolding. I’ve become adept at burying judgements and covering them with good intentions. I do, however, ask why she hasn’t put in her teeth.
antilang. no. 6
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