If I don’t open my eyes, she’s not dead. Her potato-shaped body pressed against my thigh is always this still. If I don’t listen, she’s not dead. The whistle of air through her scrunched-up nose has been my alarm clock for twelve years. If I don’t think, she’s not dead. The vet said the cancer was everywhere, but last night she rolled over-and-over in the soft patch of clover by the rose bush. If I don’t move, she’s not dead. This week’s been tough on me and my girl. Let’s stay asleep old friend—life can happen later.
Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home on Vancouver Island Canada. Christy has been shortlisted for Bath and Bridport Flash Fiction prizes and is a two-time New York City Midnight winner. She has been published by Sky Island Journal, The Good Life Review, Sunlight Press, and others.
No comments:
Post a Comment