Out of the car before it’s parked, she walks well ahead of him into the emergency and trauma center. They are shown to their boy’s cubicle. She strokes her son’s hand, says mother is here.
Watching from a distance, he recalls another night, sixteen years earlier: mother and newborn, alone.
Deborah Davis writes short fiction and poetry in frigid Michigan, waiting patiently for gardening season.
On Christmas Eve, six-year-old Debbie woke in the night to a jolly “ho ho ho” coming from the living room. Trembling with excitement, she lay still in her bed. Santa musn’t know she was awake.
Five decades later, she fervently wished she could hear her father’s “ho ho ho” again.
Deborah Davis misses her Dad every Christmas, especially when stringing the lights on the tree.
Several of Lily’s co-workers grew moustaches that November. Her eyes watering, she forced herself to smile and congratulate them. She made a generous donation to fight cancer.
That evening, at the drugstore, Lily decided to try a different brand of bleach cream.
The electrolysis appointment was still two weeks away.
Deborah Davis lives and writes in Richland, Michigan, with her trusty dog, Gracie, by her side. Her work has been featured in The Great Lakes Review, Bethlehem Writers’ Roundtable Magazine, Halfway Down the Stairs, and Searchlights and Signal Flares.
He arrived home. The power was out. She stared him down.
Red and blue cords dangled from a hole in the ceiling the size of a grapefruit, clinging desperately to the battery.
She’d asked him to fix the smoke detector. It beeped for an hour, so she fixed it herself.
Deborah Davis is an expert at ripping smoke detectors from ceilings. She spends the rest of her spare time caring for two precious rescue dogs, gardening, and, most importantly, writing. Her work has appeared in The Great Lakes Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, and The Bethlehem Writers’ Roundtable.
Rabbits jump around the green grass, soaking up warmth, delighting you. Daffodils are up; robins have returned. You survey this dazzling day with bright eyes.
Without warning, you retreat into your world. “When will it stop snowing?” you wonder out loud. “It’s so cold!”
The Alzheimer’s again… We miss you.
Deborah Davis is a former equities trader. She lives in Richland, Michigan, and enjoys fellowship and encouragement from her kindred spirits in the Richland Writers’ Circle.