baby, balloon, crib, flash, flash fiction, Francine Witte, grief, loss, micro fiction, motherhood, short stories, short story, snow, snowchild, vss
by Francine Witte
She had made it. Packed snowcell into snowcell, carved out ears and arms. Fed it a carrot mouth and prunes for eyes. But now, she can’t let it go.
Just stands there, arms around the snowchild in the gunshot gray of a Wednesday morning. Bare palms on the snowchild’s chest. Naked flesh with its heat and tremor, and the snowchild begins to melt.
She brings the snowchild into the house, into the empty room painted up for a baby. She places the snowchild gently in the crib, covers the snowchild with a quilt.
Of course, the heat. Of course, the quilt.
She moves the crib closer to the window. Pulls back the clown balloon curtains, scrapes laughing giraffes off the glass.
Then she sits by the crib, looking first at the puddle that is snowchild, and then out the window as a cold, replenishing snow begins to fall.
Francine Witte is the author of four poetry chapbooks and two flash fiction chapbooks. Her full-length poetry collection, Café Crazy, was published by Kelsay Books. Her play, Love is a Bad Neighborhood, was produced in NYC this past December. She is a former English teacher. She lives in NYC.
Liz H said: