My hand stops briefly after getting two forks and two knives, just enough for two people. The muscles in my hand have memorized this particular movement, so when I have to take another fork and knife, the movements are stuttered. I can't get used to the extra dinner plates on the table, though. It's just temporary. In a week's time, the food will, once again, be enough to feed two mouths, the conversation around us will dwindle to silence, and the mess to clean will only be half as much. I force myself to repeat those words in my head whenever I see all of us gathered and laughing around the table. It will not last, I tell myself. Do not get used to this. I shake my head, scattering the unwanted thoughts.
Day after day, for six days, my hesitation when I set the table decreases. On the seventh day, I set the table perfectly for the four of us, with no mishaps. Finally, I think, smiling.
On the eighth dinner, without pausing to think my hand goes to grab for two more forks and two knives, enough for two more people. My skin has barely made contact when I stop myself abruptly. No, Alex. There is only one other person, chides a familiar voice. I bite the inside at my cheek and frown because I know.
I know I have broken the one promise I have made with myself. I know I've grown accustomed to the older ways too quickly. Do not get used to it. On the sixth day, I was getting there. On the last day, it was so natural, basically normal. But breaking this rule has a familiar consequence. The quick stab in my chest and churn in my gut. I also know I deserved that, but it doesn't mean it hurts any less.
Swallowing, I put the third fork back.
Three days earlier.
A stitch in my chest makes it harder for me to breathe as I laugh harder. It's been awhile since that has happened- losing my breath due to joy. It's been awhile since that's happened at home, at least. Usually, it's more of a foggy, tasteless haze around my house. My mother and I don't get along quite well, as I always seem to be doing something wrong, and she is consistently in a bad mood. Whatever good I may do gets buried in an onslaught of the seemingly endless list of things I've done badly. I've stopped smiling as I walk through the door, the A on the test clutched in my hand, ready to show to my mom, hoping for her to share a bit of my smile. Now, a carefully twisted doorknob and cautious steps following suit have become my trademark entrance. Now, however, at this moment, her mood seems to have been lifted along with mine, but of course, it isn't because of me. The thought of me bringing joy to her is as ludicrous as me smiling and walking into our house. No. Instead, her smile is brought upon by my sister next to me. My sister, one of the highlights of my life, is the one to heave my mom out of her sluggish state. I watch as my sister uses her hands to emphasize the hilarious points in her story, making my mom laugh harder. Through the days, mom walked and talked as if her clothes were weighed down with cold water. Everything seemed to drain my mom of the energy she used to have. She would shuffle, instead of walk, to the fridge to get food for herself.
My sister, Miya is the comforting fire, drying the sadness out of Mom.
I edge away from Miya.
I'm afraid of getting burned.
a/n
I know, I know, it's been a while. I'm gonnan have another upload soon, like really soon , but this is what I have for now. I hope you holidays were pleasant, mine were nice. tank you for reading, my oreos :)
-alex
YOU ARE READING
short(er) stories
Historia Cortasometimes you don't have to write a novel to tell a story. a collection of short stories just for you.
