Ellen by Rya Vallabhaneni

There is a place in Ellen’s right big toe where she keeps her opinions on her mother.  Sealed shut.  Nail-chipped, ball-stubbed, doubly calloused, she wears socks most of the time.  

In her left toe, all she’s ever wanted to say necessitates an exchange, requiring direct contact with the floor.  It is here Ellen will go roaming first, as she hunts for color (any color) that’s not blue, gray, eumelanin, the red of exam corrections and maraschino cherries.

To address her mother, she locates: dear, dearest, to whom it may/may not concern, good morning, sign-below, you-okay, you’re late, no, sign-here, you’re-fine, dinner-isn’t-even-out-yet, just-come, I-meant-come-tomorrow, hugs, kiss, Ellen.  To close, she collects: best, sincerely, take care, did-you-close-the-garage, goodbye, see-you-then, you-forgot-dessert, I’m-coming, call-before-next-time, I’ll-be-there, I’ll-remember, green’s-not-your-color, so-what, be-honest.  Ellen.  For everything occupying the space in between address and closing—which is really not much, just a few flyways, an uncooperative widow’s peak—she consults her right big toe.

The toe has this to say:

Start with her name (also Ellen).  Draw a comma after the n, take a breath, turn it into a colon.  Observe the colon climb to each margin of the page, until you are looking at two ladybugs.  Add a topknot to one and braids to the other.  Extend the braids so they brush the tip of the knot, which might/might not implode.

Ellen takes her right big toe at its word, acquires a pen, and steps back from her work.   She likes the red ribbon at the ends of the braids, the concavity of the topknot, but still, there’s something missing.   

She connects one half of the colon to the other with candy-cane stripes, turns the stripes into a sugar-phosphate backbone.  But her mother (as in Ellen) is easily sickened—finds honey cloying—and so Ellen (as in not her mother) replaces all of the sugars with a jugular vein.  To each base of her neck, she adds three birthstones.

Screw it: Ellen will just ask her eyes. 

Look, they say. 

(Ellen)

Rya Vallabhaneni is a current student at Brown University from Albany, NY.  She works in fiction and journalism.

17 January 2025