The closest I ever got to New York was Las Vegas. Nearly two hundred feet atop the roof of a casino. Where my mother and I learned that sometimes panic can embody dead calm. Fiddling with the restraints, she turned toward me, a pale-sick ghost. "I've gotta go," she bellowed. My wide eyes did the talking my mouth couldn't manage as she stepped, perplexed, into the clouds. I grabbed her just in time to pull her back into the seat, her daze still hanging mid-air. The Big Apple Coaster came to a halt. We vowed never to go back there.
Shannon Clem (she/they) is a neurodivergent, chronically ill parent and writer residing with their progeny somewhere in California. Their work can be found at www.shannontantrum.com. Instagram and Twitter: @shannontantrum