Alison Ogilvie-Holme – 121 Words
She Remembers
She hears thunder from deep inside her siesta, storm now infiltrating dreams. Behind shuttered lids, a young man plays piano in the rain. Moist, black curls cling to the forehead of his oval face, creating the impression of a cracked egg.
She inches towards him with umbrella in hand while his features begin to rearrange themselves into the image of her brother – the little boy lost underwater, many moons ago.
She revisits that last morning. How he had spilled his breakfast and later pounded the keys when Mom yelled at him for making a mess; finite details which linger like the smell of nitrogen after lightning.
She embraces him in protective cocoon, umbrella tenting his head, her tears mingling with rain.