When you were a young child, sitting in the living room of a lady who may or may not have been your aunt.You were given your first marshmallow. These were not the large, smores kind of marshmallows. The kind that deflate and dissolve in your mouth like white pillows of sugar. These were small, firm marshmallows. The kind that you find melted and conjoined together in the corner of the plastic sack like a clenched marshmallow fists. Hot-coco marshmallows. This aunt or neighbor of yours was an ancient woman. She had a voice like door hinges and thin, dry, lips. Lips that felt scratchy when she kissed you. This living room was musty and cramped. Littered with forgotten potted plants. A flatulent toy poodle lies motionless on the carpet. You sit on an orange and brown floral couch. It felt enormous under your tiny body. Sunshine breaks in from the parted blinds, creating pillars of dust and light, swirling like lazy tornadoes.Your mother left you on this couch,with this scratchy old woman. You do not know where she went or when she'll be back. Most likely she has a date. So you wait and eat the stale marshmallows. This woman, however withered she may be, is an accommodating host.