Jello

Breathing craters into her spine, her breathes come out in whips as if squeezed through a microscopic hole. Normal breathing is monotonously comforting, her disjunctured gasps constantly remind the room of her pain. Our mother flips another page of superficial celebrity gossip with excessive force, announcing her frustration and adding to mine. She's disappointed in Kelly's refusal to eat. I'm disappointed in her refusal to except blame for Kelly's refusal to eat. The nurses bring food at every meal time, switching the new food for the previous, untouched meal each with a giggly, fluorescent green cup of jello. We grew up with jello. Jello whenever we got sick. Jello at sleepovers. Jello at sporting events. Jello as substitutes for birthday cakes, which we both had a strange aversion to. Jello shots when we starting to go to parties. Now jello at the hospital when Kelly has a heart attack at 19.