100-WORD MEMOIR

When She Was Gone

A love letter

“Hi, Augie!”

My nanny tapped the hard surface of the maroon, buttoned couch in reply, her gaze unwavering from her Soap Opera. Her dark eyes reflected the action on screen.

I dropped my schoolbag on the worn avocado wall-to-wall carpet, pushed closer to feel her heat, and munched the snack placed on the table in front of me.

We shared our silence over salami, cheese, and saltines every day after school.

Weeks later, she was gone. My stepmother barked orders in her place and offered apples.

When I had her, she was the nanny. When gone, she was my mother.

From a KiKi Walter prompt.