Her little brother wants his red matchbox car. How can she explain that, on impulse, she buried it with her own doll, imagining some future child unearthing them – imagining the toys as links between two distant times. She never meant to make her brother cry. But how can she explain?
Jennifer Freed writes mostly poems, and occasionally some very very short stories. Learn more at jfreed.weebly.com.
Her talk floats, changes course
like blown soap bubbles. Then—
gone. Someone else’s
laughter comes near, draws hers.
She drifts
toward whoever is taking
her pulse, lifting her spoon,
doesn’t hear me
calling
into the receiver.
I stand in my kitchen, phone to ear,
listening
to the room she’s in
Jennifer Freed writes mostly poems. Her mother survived a cerebral hemorrhage two years ago. Learn more at jfreed.weebly.com.