After he dies, his daughter places his taxidermied body in the bay window. Tilts him towards the sun like a philodendron. Rubs his leathery lips with Pabst Blue Ribbon.
In death, so in life, she says each morning when she changes his socks. Although, in life, things had been much different. When he was still alive, she’d had it down to a science. The way he walked down a hall. The sudden swing of his words. The uncertain rhythm of her heart.
Now, he’s all surprises. When she weeds in front of the window, he looks with interest at the marigolds and petunias. After dinner, as she washes dishes, he stays quiet while she sings along to showtunes. And sometime later, when a date swings by to pick her up, he watches as she glides down the front path, his brown eyes beaming with approval.
Emily Hall's prose has appeared in places such as Passages North, 100 Word Story, Gooseberry Pie Lit, and Cherry Tree. She has a PhD in English from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, is a prose editor for Pictura Journal, and lives in NC with her husband.
No comments:
Post a Comment