Eat her pancakes (no butter, how you like). Devour every fluffy bite doused in sticky maple syrup from Vermont. Savor the crunch of bacon, barely burnt around the edges. Drink two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice.
Once your plate is barren, admit it’s over.
Smile, walking out the door.
Photo courtesy of Brigitte Tohm/Unsplash
This is in response to this month’s microprose challenge at Yeah Write. Interested? Go over at give it a go! Voting starts at 10pm tonight =)
My daughter shoved her finger at a photo of my mom. “Gigi is up,” she asserted, a story I hadn’t told her.
My mom’s voice echoed, believe in miracles.
That night, darkness unfolded from dusk and I saw her shining among stars.
With gentle force, she pulled the tattered sheet off the ornate dresser. A cloud of dust plumed into the air, swirling around the wooden beauty. It was full of curves: soft to look at, but hard to the touch as she traced her fingers across each hand-carved detail.
She imagined her grandmother’s perfumes that once were displayed upon it: potent and flowery. Its finish had been worn from it being opened and closed, battered and bumped, over the years. It was her plan to give it life, once more.
She opened the smooth plastic container of chalk paint, and a new, clean smell filled the space. Gentle brush strokes covered each camber and cranny with paint. Once the paint dried, she used the coarse edge of her sanding block and found her rhythm. Sweat dripped down her forehead and onto her temples as she distressed and sanded each edge to perfection.
Once she was done buffing and shining the sticky wax, she stopped to stand and marvel that something old was new again.
Photo courtesy of Nathan Anderson/Stocksnap.io
The space between us is a canyon that has been weathered by storms of time.
Days gust past with dust from yesterday’s squall and I reach to you; my fingertips grasp at nothing but the breath from your lips. The crevasse is so wide, my voice couldn’t reach you. Shouts come out sounding like warm breeze.
I’ll fill this canyon with tears and I’ll swim to you, no matter the swiftness of current. I’ll pray for an earthquake to shake the soil beneath our feet, reminding us of our journey.
I love you, no matter where the dust takes us.
Photo courtesy of Kalen Emsley/Unsplash
Bitter air nibbles the back of my neck. I pull the worn cloth on my coat closer to my ears and sit down on the splintered bench, next to the quiet, dark-skinned girl. Her name is unknown to me, though we travel this same path daily.
We come from the same dilapidated street and, judging by the rags she wears, we are haunted by similar stories.
The doors of the bus open and warm air thieves the rawness from my cheeks. I nod and she boards first.
She smiles, takes my walking stick, and guides me to the last seat.
This is my take on the this week’s Yeah Write Prompt taken from The Write Melony’s essay titled The Case.
Photo courtesy of Alex Wong/Stocksnap.io
The cool air pressed firmly against her skin between the layers of warm cotton. Despite the mountain’s familiarity, her teeth still clanked together from more than just the cold.
“I can do this,” she said.
Exhaling, she watched her breath form a tiny cloud in front of her face. She pulled her Burton mittens farther onto her hands and strapped her feet into place, heel after toe, with two loud clicks.
Using her poles, she pushed towards the wooden seats rotating up towards the sky. Her confident posture returned, gliding on the snow.
Ready for first chair of the season.
The War was over.
After deliberation, a patterned cotton dress was chosen to wear. Blond curls were begrudgingly folded into place and complaints were made against the necessity of clean teeth.
In the end, we hugged. I straightened her backpack and she boarded the bus joyfully.