Originally published in Mudluscious
They met in a park as children. It was late afternoon. His balloon sword was green, hers red. They stood opposing each other in the center of the grassy park. He charged, thrusting at her heart. She held her red balloon sword by its handle and waved it back and forth in front of her face, trying to defend herself. But using the sun behind him to his advantage, he ducked, blinding her momentarily, and his green sword struck home. Still holding her sword in one hand, she fell backward onto the grass and closed her eyes, resting her free palm on her chest and playing dead.
Years later, each time the battle was replayed without balloons, he would recall the dry heat of that summer afternoon in the park when they were still children. He recollected the chiming of a passing ice cream truck. He remembered the flitting shadow of a bird shading her pale face. And he would wonder, again and again -- how different things might have been if he hadn’t discarded his green balloon sword to drop onto his knees and see if her heart had really been pierced.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Devotion
Originally Published in Ken*Again
The egg rests in your hand, its tips pinpricked, everything inside drained out. Using light strokes and thin-hair brushes, you color the delicate shell, careful not to shatter that fragility which houses nothing.
Listless in her bed, her eyes remain open, focused on a point on the ceiling. You’ve tried to reach her before, never successful.
You fill the tub with warm water and sprinkle the surface with red leaves—poinsettias. A small tribute to someone you still love.
One arm slid beneath the hollows of her knees, the other placed across the back of her shoulders, you heft and carry her to the bath, set her into the water.
The soft sponge you apply with a gentle touch. She doesn't react. She never does.
The nurses, almost always touched by your devotion, wait until the last possible moment, and then allow you a final kiss before telling you that you must leave.
Outdoors, in a rusted Rambler parked in the shade of an oak, your lover waits reading. She looks through the windshield at you and gently smiles. She no longer asks why, only agrees to drive you each first Sunday of the month. She understands, your lover does, what you still share with your wife is much deeper than just devotion.
The egg rests in your hand, its tips pinpricked, everything inside drained out. Using light strokes and thin-hair brushes, you color the delicate shell, careful not to shatter that fragility which houses nothing.
Listless in her bed, her eyes remain open, focused on a point on the ceiling. You’ve tried to reach her before, never successful.
You fill the tub with warm water and sprinkle the surface with red leaves—poinsettias. A small tribute to someone you still love.
One arm slid beneath the hollows of her knees, the other placed across the back of her shoulders, you heft and carry her to the bath, set her into the water.
The soft sponge you apply with a gentle touch. She doesn't react. She never does.
The nurses, almost always touched by your devotion, wait until the last possible moment, and then allow you a final kiss before telling you that you must leave.
Outdoors, in a rusted Rambler parked in the shade of an oak, your lover waits reading. She looks through the windshield at you and gently smiles. She no longer asks why, only agrees to drive you each first Sunday of the month. She understands, your lover does, what you still share with your wife is much deeper than just devotion.
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