Distant traffic and occasional trains as my

daughter lies beside me in a messy bed,

her face almost as white as this duvet,

her dark eyes burning. The heavy, choking
scent of hotel cleaning products, cut through
earlier by vomit, cloying and sharp. My eyes
ache too, and I wonder if I’m headed for
headache times and stomach flu times

myself. Someday, this will be a story:

Remember when we went to Springfield
and you threw up a bunch of times, in the
bathroom and also at the Lincoln Museum,

in the front row of a red auditorium before

the show that had those strobe lights, smoke,

and shaking seats? Someday, this will be a
story. Someday, maybe we’ll come here

again but not do these same things.

My daughter lies on her side, awaiting
the promise of TV on my computer—

this one, the one where I’m typing now.

 

 

 

For NaPoWriMo, Day 17.