Like most stuff it's the little things. The milk in a mug. Half eaten peanut butter sandwich. Blanket and flickering screen I don't recognize.
But now the TV is in the cabinet and there's a Christmas tree. Fresh green needles cover the floor beneath in plastic, bevels up. There's cookies, chocolate chip, but these are plastic too. I hate the crispy ones. They didn't celebrate Christmas where I was in the West Indies. I'm not there anymore, but I still remember the taste of forgetting dinner.
Now the tree is dead. 22 years old, its brittle plastic covers the floor and walls.
Why would you bite a hand grenade?
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Under The Shallow Water: A Collection
NouvellesAn ongoing collection of poetry and prose.
