My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie The taste of bitter chocolate always lingered in Dorothy's mouth, no matter what she ate or drank. It never went away. And the truth was, she hadn't touched chocolate in over twenty-three years. The twenty-fourth year was looming closer. And yet the flavor of dark cacao remained on her tongue. She brewed herself a cup of tasteless broth that she supposed was meant to be tea and sat down across from the ashy hearth. On the mantel was a picture of her son, in full Marine uniform. Lester had loved chocolate. It had practically been his three meals a day when he was a child. Once, when Dorothy had sifted through her heavy collection of photo albums, she had found a black and white shot of Lester at the tender age of six, the corners of his lips browned by a milkshake at The Fat Walrus, the local diner. She distinctly remembered one of his favorite pastimes before deciding to shape up for the military: Sitting on the couch watching TV, pouring tube after tube

After Lisa's father died just before midnight on New Year's Eve, the entire family was devastated, but none as much as, of course, Lisa. It took three weeks for her to step out of her room, and another two to go outside. By the time I received a text from her, I was beginning to wonder if she had grown thinner or more pale. I was surprised that, when we met in front of the mall, she was just as plump and rosy as ever. But her eyes were certainly not as bright.