Going to bed, late on a weeknight, the slender snake showed their front half to me from under the bed. I froze, stared at it.
I closed the door to the bedroom. Panic overtook my useless arms and legs.
I open the door again and see its tail move through the closet opening, quickly losing itself in junk and shoes.
I close the bedroom door. I make horrid facial expressions, marking my face with lines.
Minutes pass. I want the house to crumble to rid me of this terrorsome snake. . .I get the broom. . .
I call for Dad. I confess my stuttering inaction. He gingerly removes an air mattress and unrolls it, then this box, then finds the snake in the back of the closet and takes care of it. My nightmare ended, replaced with gratitude and relief.
Yes, I am 40 years old, yes, I am living with my parents, and yes, I still call for dad when I need help; this happened three months ago.