The woman walks home before the
street lights turn on. Her keys shake
slightly in her fingers, bumps rising
on her arms.
That morning the sun had fallen
across her feet, red in December air,
curling through the window in soft
breaths. Cold water remembers the
contours of her heavy thighs. Her
hair fell to her shoulders and stuck to
her neck. By afternoon she is
remembered in forkfuls of sweet
beans. The can lay on its side in the
bin. It was nearly empty, the taste of
tin in her mouth. By evening she is
remembered in a dozen white roses,
wrapped and laid on the counter. Her
fingers steadied their petals, and her
smile steadied the young man buying
them. $29.99, check. Thank you.
They were creased between five
words and ten fingers.
She remembers the beams through
the glassless windows she passes.
Fifteen minutes under the unborn
streetlights. They would be yellow
and bitter white.
In lieu of sending flowers, please
watch for the bloom of snow in
summer.
First creative response for my creative writing class this semester! Inspired in part by "Obit" by Ted Sanders.
