The Promise
Drienne watched the fly wiggling in the spiderweb that hung from the security bar wedged into her front door. She focused through the web at the painting on the far wall. The empty swing outside the beautiful home was now filled by the shimmering blur of the fly. Ryan had promised she could raise Jesse there.
Ryan bought the promise painting right before Jesse was born. Where? At a yard sale, he said. How much? Ten bucks. They hung it prominently and she loved it. But, every year for the last few, right before Jesse’s birthday, the painting drilled another hole in her. A broken promise house, that’s all it was. But Jesse liked it, so she kept it.
Ryan died instantly and he didn’t feel anything, they said. She didn’t recognize him and barely recognized the car, but it was their license plate and Jesse was pulled from the backseat. She identified him by the birthmark on his left arm.
Drienne’s swollen throat ached for water and she tried to stand. Carpet fibers meshed with her blood-caked hair and her thirst dissipated. The television threw lightning on her dream house and she worried Jesse would get wet. He should go inside, before he got sick, but instead he wobbled on his swing.
Ryan came outside and wrapped Jesse up like a mummy. He should have just hurried him inside, but she loved his protective side.
“Sweethearts?” she asked. Ryan picked Jesse up and carried him inside. “Sweethearts?”
Drienne kicked up the leaves as she walked by the empty swing. She turned, gave it a fierce push and it raced away from her--upwards until it pivoted and fell down towards her. “Ha,” she giggled and hopped back. She turned and ran to her front door. “Sweethearts!”
The End
Good Boy
His fluffy puppy feet
slide without coordination
on our hardwood floors.
We shriek to match his.
He play bows his head.
He’s a goof and a goon
and he never sits still.
He knows where things are.
He smells the things
We have forgotten.
Park, beach, car, walk, out:
these are the stuffs of life.
His joy measured in wags.
Our joy measured in
trips to the pet store.
We call him by his name
and the ten other names
that sound like his.
We know they’re different.
He just comes running.
Under covers
pressed against us
in his doughnut.
Who needs a space heater
when you’ve him?
Best friends for his life.
We measure our worth in his eyes,
in the shaking of his rearend,
and in the time he spends
on our laps.
We will measure our worth
often as we can
handle starting over.
The End
This is part 3 of the pairing flash with poetry. Though these might seem very different in feel, I wanted them to be different takes on loss. I get a lot of help with my fiction and my poetry at The Writer's Block. I would recommend their discord to everybody!
