David Cotrone
Here, let me tell you about your mother, all you need to know.
You would have liked her.
You would have liked her rain boots. They were yellow and she wore them every day, no matter what. One time she sat down in a train car and the person sitting next to her looked at her feet and asked where she got them, if she had to order them special. “I’m not sure,” your mother said, her voice warm. “But here they are,” she continued.
When someone saw her boots they wanted to tell her how nice they looked, even though they were so big. They were bigger than any anyone had ever seen. They were the biggest pair of boots in the world. They hurt your mother’s feet at first because of their huge size, but after a month of wearing them her feet stretched and the boots fit. They became comfortable, like a hat you forget you’re wearing. Eventually, she wore her yellow rain boots for so long her hair turned yellow. And because she loved her yellow hair so much her nails turned yellow. When it was time for her to sleep she took off her boots and locked them in the closet, but she couldn’t cover her hair and nails. Their color kept her awake. She started wearing gloves over her hands at night. She rolled up her hair and stuck it to the back of her head in a bun, because her hair glowed like fire.
Better than a fire.
If you closed your eyes she would be all you could see.
Even if you put your hand over your eyes like a visor.
Even if, for a moment, you looked away.
David Cotrone is from Plymouth, MA. His writing appears in Fifty-Two Stories, The Rumpus, PANK, Paper Darts, Necessary Fiction, Thought Catalog, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, and elsewhere. You can find him at www.davidcotrone.com.
