The storm brought the ocean into our home.

Even after the worst of the blowing was over, mother’s body couldn’t survive in the cold and the wet for long. I could only wrap her in a quilt, put her to bed, and wait.

The rainfall had become gentle, and the thunder sounded like a back cracking as I stood over her, knee-deep in seawater, watching her breath slow.

Tiny fish swam between my toes. I remained motionless, my skin puckering as I watched her breath slow, then slow, then stop.

When she died, there was a flicker of lightning, and her soul went into this mouse.

She stays dry by hiding in the ceiling and lives on the cracker crumbs I leave for her on a rafter.

I’ve started a shoebox apartment for her, for when the water goes down. I have a folded sock, which will eventually dry, for a bed, and a threadspool for a table.

Her body, I’ve kept just as she left it – in case she gets homesick.

The rain is now a mist. I sit in a saturated armchair and play solitaire on her quilt by candlelight, waiting for the water to go down, as teeny, tiny fish swim between my toes.

 

by M. N. Hanson

Listed at Duotrope
Listed with Poets & Writers
CLMP Member
List with Art Deadline
Follow us on MagCloud