by Jennifer Shneiderman
My mother slammed my fingers in the car door. She told me to walk to the doctor’s office alone. I waited, my fingers split open and turning dark. At 10 years old, I didn’t know to check in at reception. After a few hours, I walked home without being seen.
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Jennifer Shneiderman is a Licensed Clinical Social Worker and a writer living in Los Angeles. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in many publications, including: The Rubbertop Review, Bright Flash Literary Review, Writers Resist and Yale University’s The Perch. She received an Honorable Mention in the Laura Riding Jackson 2020 Poetry Competition.