She speaks to her grown son as he feigns interest. His eyes glaze over; his liquid, anxious movements announce his hurry to leave. His visits are perfunctory.

I know he left long ago.

I journal missed conversations; when I’m gone, he’ll read.

I hope he’ll discontinue ignoring those still here.

Jaye is a visual artist. She has written poetry for years and is trying her hand at micro and flash fiction.