I wonder if I should leave it here, or cast it into the sea. If I keep it, I must remind myself that once upon a time, she might have loved me; before manipulation and martyrdom became more than words.
D. Brody Lipton
Dad steps closer to inspect the pictures, close enough that I can smell his espresso, distinguish the light and dark whiskers on his long, unshaven cheeks. As usual, he looks tired.
She pictures herself alone at a café table with an overpriced latte. She racks her brain for a necessary errand, comes up with nothing. Who will give her a reason, a direction?
Megan Kathleen Hart
I stand at the counter, blinking at the bright fluorescent overhead lights. The white cupboards; the fridge, still decorated with grainy gray and white ultrasound photos; ceramic mugs ringed with brown sticky remnants of morning coffee, startlingly familiar, strangely unaffected. I wonder how so much could have changed in my world in that afternoon, when everything is exactly the same.
“Holy crap your feet are tiny, Mom!” he bellowed like a sultan, lording it over her, just like a man. There was a time he’ll never remember and she’ll never forget when his whole hand fit in her mouth, when his whole body fit inside of hers, when she ate jalapeños and to her horror at her breast, his tiny mouth burned.
The blueberry pound cake. Mel’s favorite. She could bake it for her again, another day. She might even tell Melanie what she’s been telling them all. Enjoy every moment of motherhood.
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