Fluid Dynamics

My mom and I used to shower together. My-first-grade-self fashioned a thrifty plan: One of us would lather up for a 10-count while the other washed off, pivoting back-to-back on the small acrylic floor. When I stood beneath the showerhead, she caught all the diffuse spray with her extra height. Our clumsy dance: in the water, then out. And again, like a revolving door. The two of us are like that: no degree of separation. I grew up without any real expectation of privacy. Our townhouse was a kind of diaphanous space: One moment she’s inspecting my legs unceremoniously for ticks after a Girl Scouts camping trip, the next I’m rustling through her closet to pick a dress for a college interview. Last Memorial Day, Mom crumpled suddenly onto the kitchen floor. I had to step over her to call the ambulance. The dispatcher told me to wait; I repeated my address; I felt my contacts strain against tears when the line slowed. I waited and looked at her, and looked at her some more, and swung the

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• Ashley Ye