My Cardboard Balcony

Mother, May I? by Belinda Roddie Mother wore cerulean silk today. She sat by the marina where sailboats bounced about the folds of her sleeves. An old optometrist stumbled into her because he had lost his glasses (funny story, really), and after sweating apologies through his skin, he asked her if she'd like a coffee. But Mother didn't move from her soggy perch. The golden brooch nestled between her two mountains swarmed with honeybees molding sweet comb. The tails of her coat drifted as far as the battered bridge where Father's fog stubbornly sat.

When Lily carved her name into the tree, she felt the pulse of the oaken veins against her hand. It was not a pulse of pain, merely of annoyance. She drooped her eyes toward the matted brown grass, tangled and overgrown like patches of decaying hair. Beside her, a bird perched itself on a shrub, delicately balancing one leg on a bending limb and leaf. Quiet and withdrawn.