“Mother” Bench
by Caroline Kable · Brooklyn, United States

I have turned into liquid. I’m a viscous water oozing down through the old wide oak floorboards collecting dust and decay that has been accumulating for centuries. Somebody get a bucket. My mother with her armor climbs a ladder downstairs to catch me in her warm hands as I seep down to the room below. In her hands is the strength to move old stone walls, obliterating the mortar and hefting each stone one by one into something entirely new. She holds every ounce of me close to her chest until I’m a viscous ball hanging in midair, in place of the chandelier, I cast warm light. This old house could burn but I’d be safe. Her hopes are my lightning, she my impenetrable fortress that has no age. Let her be known.