Michelle Powell

My Mother's Box of Regrets

My Mother’s Box of Regrets I stepped out of the house and onto our wrap around porch on a frigid January afternoon. The farm was quiet; the horses had already been put up for the night, the dogs were lounging inside by the fire, and there was no one to be found. I knew someone had to be home, seeing as how all three of the family cars were still parked in the driveway. None of the cars had been driven in a while, as was evident by the ice forming on their windshields like opaque frosting, reminding me of the impending winter storm. “Mom? Are you out here?” I tried again. I heard a quiet shuffle at the tree line and shifted my glance quickly. A chestnut colored hand reached out from behind a tall pine tree and flicked something to the ground. The glint of my mom’s gold and opal ring caught my eye, and I ran over to see her. What I saw didn’t look like my mother at all.