The daughter's trip, a travail, cross country; the painkillers were not the finisher mom needed—and the white sheets of the institution were too thin to provide her any comfort as she dreamt of swimming; a backstroke suspended over a waterless pool.
Her father stayed in the house, loud oracular crying from being left behind. Much louder than the open knifed berating, which continued until her mother opened the orange bottle.
Years early, there was silence, from the soft sliding of the daughter's nightgown opened to his hand; the tightness of her breath leapt into his groin.
So she says now, mother, it's my job to take you over the mountains-- away from what you know. There will be snow tomorrow, but today we drive.
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The version of this that's a poem will appear in the Scapegoat Review in January 09.
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I really appreciate what's being said here without actually saying it. I like how this narration sort of wraps around itself. I've read this a few times and keep coming back. Great stuff.
Very subtle. Very powerful.
Well done! The ending is so quietly moving.
Thanks and wow, nice to be on their recommended list.
Great, Tim