#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book


Mother didn’t like to talk about her childhood, & I began to wonder if there was something in it that would explain what was happening now.

Mother told me not to love David too much, but I wondered, how could I love him any more?

I didn’t want to hear how my father had loved me, for I’d chosen David over him since the first time I saw him.

“Someday, you will understand, Katryn,” Mother said. “Just know I will finally be able to pay the debt I owed your father.”

Something wonderful was going to happen—I could feel it. Just then, I saw Mother remove her wedding ring & give it back to the man who had placed it on her finger.

I’d never been startled into consciousness with the shrill ringing of an alarm, but rather, gentled into wakefulness to Mother’s dulcet tones.

We washed away the grime of sleep, our hair drying in the summer air on our way to the cemetery, leaving us smelling like a spring rain.

The fragrance of the roses, mingling with the honeysuckle, made me think of an old dowager entertaining little children with sticky faces.

Only God, & perhaps the dead who had been perfected in Him, could hear our thoughts. It was why Jesus had said to go into thy closet to pray.

As Scarlett O’Hara’s home was in the South, I felt mine was somewhere up in New England, where there were four seasons, rather than two.


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