fiction.

Broken Sink

The knobs on my mother’s bathroom sink

spray and spurt squirting water when twisted on.

Hot or cold--the pure porcelain, worn silver-trimmed, farmhouse handles--

spew cloudy well water on their nearest user.

In my last encounter, I swung open the door to shout toward the kitchen,

Mom, when are you going to get these fixed?

She did not respond,

but a faint whir of bubbles popped in her boiling water

as I smear my shirt with a blue hand towel.

She then said, there’s a sweet spot, honey, you just have to find it.

Back to the sink, I spun the four-pronged knob with force,

only to be puked upon again.

Frustrated,

I grasped the sink and looked up at the mirror

to see my father’s frustrated

eyes staring back at me.

Their watery blue hue reminding me of the loss and his absence,

and her loss, and why the broken sink handles stayed broken.

I left the bathroom and responded,

you claim there is, but I have yet to find it.