When writing my signature I remember the beauty of her accusation. How she entered the room natural and unpredictable. The picture was much the same. A slight cock of the head and the smile beginning to stretch unevenly. All her weight on her left forearm. I wanted to call her sinister, but that was her word for me and always in quotations. The alignment of her body held. She always led with grammar and pointed optimism.
To say goodbye. To say good and leave the plausible. Maybe a map and compass so as to think of a return. Some hopeful forgetting.
What of erasing. Disappearing lines in the snow. Twiggs make the sound of light. The sky colors to something more familial. A resting, not a pause, but a gradual slowing. Afternoon’s and evening’s agreed upon reluctance. At dinner our speech lacked a certain trajectory. Momentarily my mother will say something astonishing. At least my father’s face expresses the sentiment, but we will continue in certain isolation. I am wishing to write again and already anticipating her response. Twiggs make the sound of light and carries a little longer.
Extending the presence into another. She whispers the correct spelling of d-i-s-c-r-e-t-e. Foolishly I follow with laughter.
Erich Schweikher teaches high school English and the occasional creative writing class in Cincinnati, OH. He wakes up some mornings wishing to be a riverboat captain.