One Room
Laura Tuzzio

Here’s how to fit 60 years of life into one room. Have a kid 
at 17, then have another at 19. Throw in a third at 21. Three 
kids, one bunk bed, two bedrooms, three holes punched into 
two walls, one marriage over. Two grandparents raising three 
grandkids. Take a job, quit that job, take another, no, another. 
Keep looking, dreams are out there. It’s been a few years, new 
guy, don’t get married, have another kid. One woman, two men, 
four kids. Four is good, even numbers work. Kids are hard. One 
aunt one uncle raising one fourth child. Get a new guy, take 
a new job. Quit that guy, keep the job. Not that job. Hit the 
road but come back, climb down from that 18-wheeler to tell 
your kids you’re married again, that’s two, two husbands, one 
wife. One driver, one passenger, one mom M.I.A., 18 wheels 
take you far, far away. Write your kids, don’t forget to write 
the kids, greetings from five states away, three postcards, four 
letters, three kids, no, four. Take that punch, that’s one to the 
head, one to the stomach. That’s two hands that grab, two hands 
that slap, two hands that shake, one mouth that screams, one 
foot that kicks. Kick number two husband out. That’s it, you’re 
done, no more husbands, zero. Remember your kids, they’re out 
there. Four kids, three to talk to, three to see. One holds out, 
the second one, she remembers. One joint, one pill. No, one 
thousand joints, one hundred pills. No job, none. No parents, 
gone. No second child, who’s still remembering, done. One 
mattress, no frame, one closet half full, four boxes hold dozens 
of pictures. One letter, one laminated memory of the second 
child who won’t see you, won’t speak to you. One purse, three 
pill bottles, 12 dollars. One patch. One arm with one fentanyl 
patch. One room holds all the mementos of one life’s mistakes. 
One patch for one overdose, it only takes one. One room, one 
life. No, just one room.

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