Ingrid nabbed that fallen star, the one that long lingered low over our row houses; a shiny lure that we swore we could — we would — swat from the sky once we grew tall enough to climb the old water tower on Wild Goose Road. Ingrid found that star one Sunday, just hanging out in some neat green grass in her standalone backyard. Ingrid on her rust-resistant teeter totter, shouting, probably, for her grass-fed father, who shouted, of course, for his blue-haired gardener, who scooped that star into a jar, so Ingrid wouldn’t burn her hands. Ingrid tugging her hands away from her shea-buttered mother, who had adorned that jar, like she did her daughter, with rhinestones and a satin king bow. Ingrid in her pink patent leather Mary Janes. Ingrid with her pigtails curled. Ingrid show-and-telling on the tips of her toes. Ingrid, who played Mother Mary in the Christmas and Easter pageants, playing Mother, May I in the schoolyard at recess. Ingrid allowing crawls, scoots, bounces (but not leaps), and, of course, twirls. Ingrid with a trail of us girls, always one, two, three big steps back, waiting for a turn to shoulder that jar with her star in our beige canvas knapsacks, red streaks butterflying our backs, singes blotting the brown bags covering of our secondhand textbooks. Ingrid clicking her silver-tinted tongue, reminding us we could look or carry, but never really touch or own. Of course, Ingrid, of course.
Jeanine Skowronski (she/her/hers) is a writer based in N.J. Her work has appeared in Gone Lawn, JMWW, X-R-A-Y Lit, Lost Balloon, MoonPark Review, Five on the Fifth, Crow & Cross Keys, and more. You can follow her on Twitter: @JeanineSko.
Ingrid, of Course (242 words) was published in 2022 as part of Reflex Fiction's Summer Flash Fiction contest.
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