The longest drive finally over; we get out of the car and into the crisp evening air. 3.5 hours of driving north along the Hudson River. You’re exhausted. I’m not sad, I swear. It’s time to move forward.
You squeeze my hand and I feel the crackle of the turning leaves under my feet.
I fumble with the house keys.
So many keys. Which one is it again?
The house is warm and sweet, with furniture older than us. The firs around us make the house almost too secluded for us city kids.
Previously published by Harness Magazine at www.harnessmagazine.com
About the Creator
Isabella Biberaj
rambling thoughts from an over thinker
@three_am_talks
Keep reading
More stories from Isabella Biberaj and writers in Poets and other communities.
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.