If we were having tea, you and me,
you would come over to my house. We would sit at the big island in the kitchen, under the skylight. The island has a wood laminate top, because I still haven’t gotten into the trend of stone countertops in the kitchen.
You would tell me all about how the twins are doing. “I can’t believe they’re almost ten,” you’d say. They grow so fast, it seems like only yesterday that they were born. You would tell me what they’d be doing, and all about their fourth grade teacher. “I wish they’d bring friends over,” you’d say, “the house gets so lonely.”
You would ask how I’m doing. We’re close friends, so I wouldn’t try to hide it from you. “Not well,” I’d say. “I keep waking up with nightmares about Carlos. He’s in trouble,” I’d say. “He is sick, and not getting better. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”
You would try to console me. “He’s not hurting anymore,” you’d whisper. “He’s in a better place now. Have you been to visit him recently?”
“No,” I’d say. “Maybe that’s part of the problem. I should go visit him. Maybe I’ll bring him flowers.”
That would be nice, you’d say. I’d invite you to come with me. Maybe we could visit your daughters, I’d think. Maybe that would help you, because I know you never go visit them. But I wouldn’t say that out loud.
When we were done, I’d thank you for coming over and send you home with cookies. “It’s always good to see you,” I’d say.
Later, I will ask Gloria to go with me to the cemetery.
Today’s post is prompted by another piece of flash fiction, “At the Doctor’s Office” by Charli Mills. It can be found in this compilation of 99-word flash fiction pieces on her blog. Her character, Ramona, refuses to accept that her twin girls were stillborn. And as you know, Cecilia still mourns the loss of her son Carlos, and has been having nightmares.