Dear Elena,
I woke up and my hands were shaking
And my breath was caught in the back of my throat
Gasping, praying to escape my lungs.
Lilah played the drums on the kitchen table with her crayons
Beating the shit out of the wood
While she waited for her cereal.
I wondered if she pictured her father
Each time she struck the tabletop
And left a deep blue mark on its surface.
She didn't, of course.
Not yet.
I couldn't bring myself to go to work
So Lilah and I watched Sesame Street
And ate Cheerios dry out of plastic bags.
Love, Ida
YOU ARE READING
Ida
Short StoryIda Whitney- A twenty four year old 911 operator in Eugene by day, and a crumbling lie by night.
