“Where do I go?” he asked his wife, who was too busy reading a book to give him directions. The husband reached the three-way intersection at the end of the long road which split off into two before them. He waited for his wife to answer left or right because he couldn’t very well continue forward into the barbed-wire and brush.
“You can get to the restaurant if you turn left,” she said, placing the book down.
From the left a motorcyclist was approaching, but—being hyper-focused on the unfamiliar road—the husband didn’t notice. Creeping the car forward, his wife had a miniature spasm attack of some sort.
“Watch out!—watch out!—watch out!” she shrieked, startling him into a stop. The motorcyclist slowed down and took a right, neglecting to signal his intention to make the turn.
“Oh be quiet, back seat driver!” the husband shouted and lurched the car forward to get out of the intersection. Huffing, his wife lifted her book to continue reading. Continue reading
On an early summer morning, she wears
her dress with red dots and ivory lace.
She sits by the white curtains and stitches,
nodding off to her grandmother’s chatter.
“Hullo!” a voice calls out from the window.
A prick and a sigh, she places aside her
bloodstained embroidery to move the curtain.
From the window past her vines, the man grins.
He holds a bouquet— her garden flowers!
“What is this?” she asks him, forcing a smile.
“I saw a blossom more beautiful than
those on the vine. These are for that blossom.”
Lips pressed together, she plucks a single flower.
“Why, thank you, good sir. You are ever so kind.”
Skye led me through the overgrown grass, pushing the grass out of the way and leaving a clearing of our path behind us. I could only see grass and the canopy of the oak trees ahead of us, which is where she was headed, though I wasn’t sure why she was taking me there. To our right I could hear the babbling of a stream. As we neared the trees, the grass became sparse and I could see the stream flowing near the roots of the trees.
In the tree top of the largest oak, hidden by the leaves that swayed back in forth in the breeze, was a small treehouse perched on the branches. I gazed at the house, noticing that the wood was weather worn and would likely fall apart if anyone climbed up there.
I never thought that beautiful, black grand piano would be mine someday. But here it is, being carried through the door of my home by the young movers I hired. It’s hard for me to comprehend that my mother let it go, but I suppose she couldn’t have taken it with her in death. I’m sure she would’ve, if it had been possible. She’d be happy performing on a stage in a fiery pit for the devil.
God must’ve realized that and forced her to leave it here.
“Where do you want the piano, Miss?” one of the movers asks me, interrupting my thoughts of Satan clapping after my mother’s performance. I must’ve laughed out loud because the men are giving me strange looks.
“Just put it over there next to the window,” I say and point. They nod and continue with moving the piano. I sigh and sit down on a chair while I watch them. It doesn’t take them too long before they have it in place, the legs placed back, ready for me to play. The young men have moved pianos before and know how to do it fast. After writing them a check, I escort them out the door and then sit back in my chair to stare at the thing.