US May Unleash Microwave Weapon in Afghanistan

Appliances Are Dangerous

When I was five I had a black kitten. I'll say her
name was Fluffy for the sake of this story. Fluffy
was better than any doll could dream. She was warm,
knew me as mother, and curled up on my chest like a
mink stole. We needed each other. We had each other.
Pretend real family in our own tiny, timeless universe.

One day I put Fluffy in the dryer for a nap, as I did
every afternoon. I suppose I had to take a break
from the demanding task of being a mother, or grab
a snack, and an episode of The Magic Garden.

The door opened and wet clothes were shoved in.
Fluffy bounced and knocked in the hot, steel barrel.
Spin, spin, spinning.
When the load was dry she rolled out,
a lifeless ball of hair tangled into socks and towels. 

Our universe dissipated. Dispersed in the humidity of
laundry room air.


Michelle M. Buchanan 06/18/10