by Michael Brasier
Her toys—every little figurine and stuffed animal I bought—rest in a cardboard box collecting dust, not touched since her last visit three months ago. While watching The Twilight Zone, once her and her mother’s evening tradition, I find five small socks—cheetah patterned, sweat-hardened sock calluses—under the recliner. She hated the way socks felt and would sneak off without them.
Kudos, I thought, that’s where the smell came from.
My blanket, her favorite, is in the closet, folded and untouched since she last used it. Tonight, I take it out, spread it across the living room, and wrap myself in it. A blanket burrito. Sometimes she would twist herself in it. I would roll the snorting child around the carpet, and her mother, while grading papers, would laugh and say, I love you, guys. I unroll, grab couch pillows, and watch another episode, clinging to both as if they’re still here.
Michael Brasier is a writer born and raised in Missouri. His fiction and poetry have appeared in journals, such as Moon City Review, Crack the Spine, and The Phoenix. When not writing on the banks of a Missouri river, Michael works as a copy and content editor.
Hawaii Pacific Review 