Snapshot :: After the Funeral

“She stood watching dust float in the attic air like miniature downy birds before walking toward the north window. The wallpaper was peeling away in petal pink curly cues and pockmarked lath and plaster work peaked through the gaps. Beneath the windowsill, a faded olive United States Army trunk with a rusted lock hummed a familiar hymn of question. She’d listened to its aching, minor melody since she was only ten and had been forbidden from touching the chest, much less twisting the key and exposing its entrails. Gazing down at the faded military stenciling, she swore she heard her father’s phantom voice, deep and rich in the levitating dust.”



© Pearl Bayou 2017


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