Flash Fiction

Just a Shirt

It surfaced in my dresser after I turned my clothes over and over, searching for my favorite shirt which apparently was in the wash. The faded red attracted me. Forgot I had it. Jay's shirt. I took it out and put it on. 

I sat down at the breakfast table, the sun shining in through the eastern-facing bay window, promising a beautiful day for the move.

"Morning, Mom," I said.

She looked up at me from her laptop, the glasses that she only wore at home strung around her face. She frowned.

"Oh, dear, that shirt," she said. She looked at my dad. He grunted from behind his newspaper.

I looked from him to her. She tsk-tsked at it, but silently. I liked this shirt. She stared at it. She probably saw the fading golden glitter on it, part of a cornstalk morif. A logo for a local festival from several years ago. Glittery as the day my brother took the gun to his head and fell for the last time in it.

"We should have buried it with him," Mom said.

"What's done is done," Dad said.

I expected Mom to say something to the effect of "Take it off." But she only sighed. "Guess we can never quite forget that boy. He was always all over the place. Until he wasn't." She cracked and broke down. Dad raised his eyebrows, flipped the page, and flipped it again.