His mother lit a cigarette, her dry skin whispering against the paper. The back of Cash’s neck warmed, though the air on the porch was crisp, his breath almost visible, like steam fogging up the mirror in his earliest memory:
Mama toweling her hair dry, her hips like treetops, her legs long and heavy as a downpour. She stepped out of the tub where soap was tucked between plants he couldn’t yet name: black haw and goldenseal, witch hazel and yarrow. Her wet hair dripped onto his forehead. She passed into the bedroom, leaving her son inside the draining tub. He reached for her as panic bloomed in his belly, but before he could cry out, something pulled him backwards. His head hit the tile but he hadn’t fallen, he had been pulled – of that Cash was sure. Yet he was alone: on his back, screaming at the dripping walls.
That was the first time.
