Mom says dad’s got pickles for brains. You can smell the dill and vinegar on his breath, hear it sloshing around in his skull when he shakes his head. The affliction didn’t seem to affect him much at first, but then we watched his mouth spin shut like the tinplate top of a vacuum-sealed mason jar—right in front of us, it happened, and it freaked us out so bad we all took dinner to our rooms. Everyone says I take after my mom, but when I look in the mirror, it’s his resemblance I see: a cool baby cucumber, plump with possibility. I think I get it, though—the pickling. Some days the world seems no bigger than a mustard seed.
Pickles
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Lizzy Burnam 🐞 
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