staying alive
My mother used to play Janet and Madonna in the car.
It was her and my weekly ritual before I had to go into therapy. I was ten with bad acne, doughy cheeks, and brown, deer-ish eyes. I would sit in therapy for an hour and talk about everything other than what my parents wanted me to talk about. Fashion, mostly. And books. I read a lot then.
Fifty minutes later, my therapist -- and older woman named Bonny -- said, alright, Erin, let's do our breathing exercises. And I was like, ok, Bonny. And I would focus on my breathing. Sometimes to the tune of Papa Don't Preach or Rhythm Nation.
And then my therapist would say alright, you're good to go. I'll see you next week.
My mother and I would sit in silence to Madonna and Janet. Driving home, the car bumped against potholes.