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She kept the flowers for sentimental reasons, she told me. They were wilted along the edges, white and splattered with drops of color, like the paint that often covered her arms and face while she worked. She didn't like to stare at the flowers as she talked about them. There was a slight frown on her face and she kept her eyes on the corner of the room while she spoke. When I asked her who she had gotten them from, she responded with a shrug before turning and walking into the kitchen.
I see it in my dreams.The gun that killed my father. The bullet entering his back, the soft gasp that exits his mouth as he falls to the ground. His blood stains the floor, stains my hands, stains the back of my eyelids. No matter how hard I try, I can not wash it away.
The room is full of kneeling people, heads bowed, hands clasped in prayer, their combined voices echoing off of the ceiling. "Our father, who art in heaven..." I was never a very religious man. But I soon find myself on my knees, joining them.
writing since 2014 · 3 entries · 3 days shown up
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stainsroomhandsfatherflowersfacefullkneelingheadsbowedclaspedprayercombinedvoicesechoingceiling