Do I do a mea culpa? I wrote the Sean story so that he could show his compromise. This story is for me, because.
As always, thank you, Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers.
I fill plates, busy myself. I make sure beer is cold and wine chilled.
I coddle my Aunt and Uncle, discreetly, praying they don’t notice.
I keep busy, desperately try not to miss my cousins’ snark, laughter, intelligence, their youthful acceptance of immortality.
It’s Easter brunch. I no longer believe. Ugliness abounds.
I didn’t want to serve ham, but mother insisted. “So what if pigs are smart? So are dogs, and they’re eaten.”
People rationalize everything.
My cousins’ sweet voices fluctuate with gunshots.
Distantly, “Imagine” sways, crystalline clear.
You may call me a dreamer. I’m not the only one.
Sascha Darlington 3/28/2018