by Sarah O’Brien
There are seven of them now. Twisting, towering time-markers choreographing shadows that stretch their limbs along the darkened walls. With them, familiar voices flicker, rising and falling in awkward accord. As if a slice of Aunt Ruby’s red velvet cake and another sip of homemade sangria could make us forget that last year, we were unsure we would see seven. Those overhead fluorescent lights penetrating tear-stained eyes as Dr. Carmine slowly shook his head, his thick eyebrows kissing one another like caterpillars. Three months, maybe four. But Drew’s dimples are highlighted in the dim glow of tradition. His grin gives way to giggles: caught red-handed, rebellion evidenced in frosting on fidgeting fingers. Hope embodied in hastily handled tokens, waxy carriers of wishes—we watch as seven symbols are silenced with a breath, before they burn out.
[Featured]Digital Art Image Credit: blood letting in the backyard by J. A. Spahr-Summers. ©Copyright 2015, Jeffrey A. Spahr-Summers
Snapping Twig – Spring – 2015
Vol: Feb 2015 thru Apr 2015