Sally

 I heard the sound of rustling leaves when I rolled out of bed. It was my stoma bag; she’s called Sally, Sally the shit bag. It had only been a year since the operation, and I was struggling with my sense of self. Who was I going to become? I had just started talking to Henry, the guy from work, but I dropped off through my recovery. I was embarrassed of Sally, of her gurgles and squelches. 

***

“They sell special lingerie now, you know? We’re not in the Dickens era anymore,” mom said, plainly. 

“I know, mom.” 

“Henry came by the other day, but you were in bed. He wants you to call him. He’s quite handsome.” 

Sally farted in response. 

“What’s the point? If we get down to it, the poor guy is going to be staring at my rancid shit.” 

Mom rolled her eyes. 

“Oh, for goodness sake. Darling, I know this is hard for you. It’s a huge adjustment, but people aren’t as terrible as you seem to believe. Why don’t you give him a chance?” 

I went to make a BLT. Mom followed me into the dimly lit kitchen (I had gotten into the habit of turning all the lights off). I opened the tub of sliced tomatoes and stared at its round shape. It looked like the part of my intestine that was now living outside of my body. I held up the slice to the lantern dangling from the ceiling. 

“Would you look at that?” 

Sally squealed again. I started laughing, and so did Mom; we couldn’t stop. She will continue to sing for the rest of my life, and I couldn’t wish for anything more.