Day 105 - A Short Short Story Called Grief

I sit at the kitchen table. The white sunshine diving through the blinds cuts the bland wood surface into stripes of light and dark. My newspaper warms.

I'm so sick of waiting. I read the story about the puppeteer who fashioned a hand puppet from his deceased dog's skin. I'm watching time pass. I'm trying not to. I skim the funnies.

When you open the door, I only see your silhouette. Your darkness fills the frame. And then like a negative, your detail and color reveal slowly, brilliantly.

The dogs cheer for you. They don't know what you've done.

If our children weren't dead, they'd run to you too. I hear their feet padding through the hallways. Their laughter ricochets in my chest cavity. The memory makes me want to pound my fists against my skull.

"Here's your oranges," you say, presenting the heavy mesh sack to me.

I motion towards the countertop. "Thanks." I pretend to read.

Later that night, you reach for my waist under the covers. I let your cool skin cover me. I become just a feeling, a sound, a movement.

Afterwards, you whisper "I need you" in between my shoulderblades. I start to cry.

The morning light blinds me. I start to pack my things. I know that I'm not good enough to forgive you. Even if you're not to blame...