loss Archives · Blue Fern Press

Half-Blue

A ragged formation of geese flies by, squawking about a storm. The sky is half-blue, but Linda shutters her windows. She misses the rainbow.

Paula grew up on a cul-de-sac. Now she lives on a dead end. She’s traversed many and many a roundabout in the interim, all leading her here.

His thumb-twiddling makes the dog nervous. His dog’s panting makes the man jumpy. He twiddles all the more. Finally the forgiving sun rises.

The child’s hat has never been crushed. Its taffeta bow shines crisply white. She reaches up an unmet hand as she leaves her only ever home.

She lives near the shore, but Pearl hasn’t seen it in years. She’s forgotten the way to the sea, but she remembers the language of seagulls.

The gash in the wall exposes twelve layers of paint and wallpaper. Jill scrapes it down to raw pine boards. The past crackles to the floor.

They thought it was the paper they missed, lined paper, onion skin, reams of bond, pages of books. No one even remembered the smell of ink.

The year the woods became Lincoln Logs, Cal had his first son. The boy grew up unknowing the rustling ghosts of trees that haunt his father.

Linda Rose became a rose. It happened in her sleep. She dreamed the scent of an American Beauty, but she woke to the tears of a Cherokee.