By Katy Comber
Shea made it a sport: catching glimpses of winks in time. In one wink, her children dozed, safely tucked, under moonlit blankets. Shea peered in and froze in their doorway. She hoped for a pout, a yawn, a twitch of a foot. Leftover gestures from infancy. Something to combat this yearning to go. In this moment, she briefly allowed that bitter ache and missed those babies, those scrunched up miniature previews of elderly creatures. She snagged this wink like a firefly, cradled it softly with room to flutter around, nearly forgetting to breathe, then let it go, and walked away.
0 comments:
Post a Comment