'Lifetime' by Lisa Thornton

I saw a family of bears. Two bigs, one small. Up the side of the hill like brown, hulking shadows. I didn’t see any bears. The night was still. Pine trees poking the stars. It was noon. The sun burned the back of my neck. I clambered over orange rocks. The wolves howled. The wolves curled in their dens. There have never been any wolves.

People who live in the mountains see ghosts dancing with feathers, spirits of thousands unsettled in valleys and canyons. People who live in cities hear them hollering, twirling, cursing. The ghosts ride on the tops of train cars, silver and cold, tossing beads and candy into the night. 

When I was a child, I rode a horse. It bucked me off. I broke my back. When I was an old woman, I rode a horse. I glided over the earth. I pulled the reins and the animal went where I wanted it to go. I kicked its sides and it flew, hooves over desert, pounding time into the dry surface. I didn’t have to kick it. The horse knew when I wanted to go faster and it knew when I wanted to slow down. 

The winter bit my chin like a lover mocking me. Icicles hung from the bottoms of bridges. Fish pushed against the frozen under-tops of lakes, lips opening and closing. I saw two mockingbirds making love. My second-grade teacher said love is an act. I saw the birds do it. My back cracked like knuckles. I danced a perfect plie. I saw a family of bears. Two bigs, one small. 

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Lisa Thornton is a writer and nurse. She has stories in SmokeLong Quarterly, Pithead Chapel, and other magazines. She has been nominated for Best of the Net, the Pushcart Prize, and Best Small Fictions. She lives in Illinois and can be found on Bluesky and Instagram @thorntonforreal.