A red glass lamp hangs in the window
of the four-mile floathouse drug up
from the beach on skids and is now our house.
Beside the lamp, red glass objects glitter
in front of mirrored wall tiles lining
a recessed bookshelf—1970s décor.
On the shelves, sits a red glass grape cluster,
a red glass Victorian shoe dish, a couple dozen
uniquely shaped red glass vases,
and wine glasses, a red horse head decanter.
It’s my stepmother’s collection, like her
mother’s similar red glass collection.
Everything is sort of red in our house—
maybe it’s a way to spiffy up something old
and smelling like fish nets—lights, carpet,
free standing fireplace. When we first
decorated our floathouse red, my stepmother
told us a neighbor was startled by our home’s
first hint of red glow. “Like a whorehouse,”
my stepmother laughed back at her, knowing
the family lore about Great Aunt Helen’s
former business venture. One late night,
I sneaked downstairs to see my stepmother
sitting on the couch under nightglow red,
and I wondered why she wasn’t in bed.
In front of her, a red glass ashtray mountained
with half-smoked cigarette butts.
No open windows or doors—we were all
used to inhaling the stale and she was always
lighting one after another.
I creaked across the kitchen as I fiddled
with a handful of swiped cigarette butts
hidden in my sweatshirt pocket.
My stepmother looked up and I feigned
thirst and needed a drink of water.
I could only sneak downstairs on nights
when she was mood-stoned with a med-tamed
migraine, dulled from being the mom
of seven kids, from being assaulted as a teen,
from spending a year in a psych unit up north
in Anchorage. By the red light in her eyes,
I almost believed she was going to offer me
a full-length cigarette from her pack of Vantages.
But a few months later, when I turned 13,
she instead offered me my first communion
of Reunite wine and I gladly sipped it and
sipped it from the pretty Victorian red glass
shoe that she’d let me choose for myself.
About the author:
Vivian Faith Prescott was born and raised on the small island of Wrangell, Alaska, Kaachxana.áak’w, in Southeast Alaska, on the land of the Shtax’heen Kwáan. She lives and writes as a climate witness in Lingit Aaní, at her family’s fishcamp. She is a member of the Pacific Sámi Searvi and a founding member of the first LGBTQIA group on the island. She’s the author of several poetry collections and works of non-fiction and fiction. She facilitates two Alaskan writers’ groups: Blue Canoe Writers and the Drumlin Poets.
Photo by Ashish Kumar on Unsplash