“How you doin’, Marie?” she asked, ignoring the more pressing questions, like since Jim died, since the kids moved from Abilene to God knows where, since Marie’s life had emptied like an apple tree, all of its fruit plucked in the Fall.
“Ha,” Marie laughed like air filling a flat tire. “I’m working at the thrift store off 23rd and Elm.” She paused, pushing a strand of thinning gray hair behind her right ear. “It ain’t too bad, three days a week, minimum wage and commission, given my limited work experience and my GED, having left school at age 17, pregnant with little Johnny. I get to see people dream. Clients come in with their used and torn clothes, hoping for a big consignment. Customers come in, checking all the coat pockets for a lottery ticket, hoping for a big win.”
“What’s next, girl?” she asked.
“Yeh,” Marie laughed again, this time
like a windchime dancing in spring breezes.
“That’s the question, ain’t it.
What’s next?” Marie removed her
glasses to wipe a smudge, pausing to clear her view. Life holds its secrets close like a dollar
fortune teller at the state fair, turban askew, crystal ball purchased
wholesale online. “I’ve got the start of
a plan,” she said cryptically.
Marie would visit Jim. She’d weave through the headstones like a needle sewing threadbare cloth, renewing its tatters, stand over his marble grave, and remember his gifts: love, kindness, care.
Around his gravesite, Marie saw the winter’s brown grass turning green in the beginning of spring.
about th euthor
Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his six chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; and There Is a Season.
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.
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