fiction

A Perfect Breakfast

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Livia had been up for hours already.  She’d done a load of clothes, unloaded the dishwasher, and had been in the garden cutting daffodils to set in a vase on the kitchen table.  Looking out the window at the sunrise it occurred to her she should be hungry. 

Mornings without Greg were difficult and she was aware she filled them with activity to keep from thinking.  But the sunrise caught her attention and she allowed herself to remember.

Photo by Edgar Castrejon on Unsplash

Sunday.  Today was Sunday.  Greg would be in the kitchen separating eggs, slicing chives, and grating gruyere.  Opening the refrigerator to get the heavy cream, he would burst into song.  Probably an aria she wasn’t familiar with.  His love of opera confounded her. 

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Evergreen

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Appalachia was in the greening.  That time in early spring when the green leaves on the trees were so slight, so new, so small, that they were more of a green haze than a green bower.

The greening on this April day was superb.  The sky was the blue of a robin’s eggs with air so clear and so clean it was like Thanksgiving crystal before the feast.

With the revival of the garden, the greening, came the realization that winter was over.  Happiness flooded Charlotte’s heart.  On her knees, she pulled weeds from around the irises, making room for the hollyhocks to begin their biannual ascent.  “I am blissful,“ she said aloud.  She grinned though there was no one in the garden to see her or hear her.  

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Mourning Doves

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What stage of grief is it when mourning doves are cooing and the soft morning air carries the sound to me in my bed. That sound. What stage of grief is that sound?

Photo by Stefan Gogov on Unsplash

When I was twelve, my mom sent me to the store for lettuce. I can’t remember why, but I didn’t ride my bike. It was six blocks. And very hot. The heat surprised me. It was crystal clear and not humid, but the heat was oppressive. It lay on my body like a boulder. I pretended I was trekking through the desert in search of the Holy Grail. In my mind, so very fertile in those days, I saw myself on my knees croaking, “Water, water.” It was so hot.

I bought the head of lettuce and the bag boy put it in a full-size, brown paper bag. The sweat of my hands left large blotches on the paper. It seemed much too large. He embarrassed me when he said, “Can I carry that to your car, ma’am?” He did it just to be mean. I flushed, and he and the cashier laughed. I knew them both from the school bus – they were two of the high school kids that picked on the rest of us.

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The Ugly Swan

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George adjusted the neck and waded in.  The neck kept doubling over on its side and looked like a swan in distress, which was certainly not George’s intention.

Although initially a joke, the idea was, in fact, the perfect solution.  George had thought about it for several days, examining the proposed solution for flaws and drawbacks. Other than getting wet, he couldn’t find one. The whole village knew Gina was the smart one.

He wanted a close-up of the the swan family: the cob, the pen and their five newborn cygnets. The babies were adorable, and he wanted to win the village’s photo competition this year. After six years of participation, he had yet to even place. This was his year. He just knew it.

He stood on tiptoe to keep the water out of his mouth.  He bent the neck one more time, hoping the wire framing would hold, and zipped up, leaving enough room for the camera lens.

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