After I wave goodbye to you, son, I watch your tail lights disappear, then, roll down the garage door, brew coffee, wash dishes, scrub shaving foam from your sink, place your dirty clothes in the hamper, my ears, attuned to the ding of the cellphone for your messages—to say you reached school, to say you left school for the state college to attend the calculus class, to say you left college and reached the gym, to say you arrived at Starbucks for your barista job, to say you are headed to KFC with friends to grab a bite, so don’t wait up Mom—and after that I eat with your loaded plate beside mine, resend the message from yesterday and the day before to say pudding is sitting on the island in a round Pyrex box with an orange lid, then go to bed, ears attuned to the sound of the garage door.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
FlashFlood 2023 is OPEN for submissions for one week only!
We are delighted to announce that we are open for submissions for FlashFlood 2023 from 12:01 a.m. BST on Sunday, 30 April to 23:59 BST on Sa...
-
One day the planet tilted just ever so slightly to the left and everyone and everything I’d ever known in between fell off. It wasn’t easy t...
-
A girl sits, waiting. She reaches above her head for a girl. A girl to pluck from the tree of girls. The tree is full and ripe, the perfect ...
-
A shaft of sunlight fell across the worn herringbone floor, drawing his gaze upwards to the flawless blue sky beyond the row of windows, ...
No comments:
Post a Comment