Fiction | July 21, 2023
Mothers
Emily Mitchell
Mothers
Emily Mitchell
The last thing I do when I finish work each morning is bring out the Mothers. I go to the small side entrance of the temperature-controlled room where they’re kept at night. I punch the code into the keypad to disable the alarm. I push the door open and go inside. There they are, seven of them, taking up most of the space. They’re all in the same seated posture, arms down by their sides. Shifting them around so I can get between them, I take a dry cloth and a step stool over to each one and carefully clean any dust or dirt off them. I wipe their chairs down with a moistened rag. I inspect them for tears or bumps or scratches. If I don’t find any of those things, it’s time to take them to the floor.
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