Keepsake
The digital clock on my dresser says it’s 5:17 am. It’s crazy how it can be so dark right before sunrise. I hear through my open window the pitter-patter of rain in the trees. I remember that I love the earthy smell when it rains. Even here. I have no reason to get out of bed. My stomach feels empty, and my mouth tastes sour. So I just lie here with my eyes open. I look outside and see black. Pitch black.
I turn on the reading light that coils around my wooden bedpost. The light lands on the watercolors project I did in art class. I hadn’t wanted to tell my teacher at the time that each glass I’d painted represents a part of me. The liquor bottle represents my beginning. My parents met at a bar, liked each other, did the nasty, and then I was born. The baby food jar represents w
