thematically fickle

(Ten minutes or less, 250 words or less. This week, the inspiration comes from a poem, “The Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock” by Wallace Stevens.)

The last thing I saw was rain. Or drops of it, anyway. I mostly remember one sparkling bead shivering on the green tip of the yellow-veined magnolia leaf. Since then, it’s only been rings and splashes of the fireworks behind my eyelids and even still when I open them wide. I see no specific shapes or faces I recognize or the wink from daddy or the familiar loping gait of momma when she approaches with the salve. I’m starting to know her by smell, instead. Sometimes, if I concentrate extra hard, I swear I can make out a ghost in lace but I’ve mostly stopped trying. Instead, I dive toward this new blackness to see what’s in there, feeling like I have no tether to the periwinkle stars that engulf me. I’m floating and I’m terrified. But I’m thrilled and excited all the same.