May 15th, 2019.
I’m sitting near the threshold of my sisters’ bedroom in our old house on Riverview. You’re standing by the window; your eyes are entranced by the water below. A streak of sunlight breaks through the clouds; the ray covers the front half of your body. You shift your weight to the right and allow some of the light to fall on me. My hand reaches into the ray; I marvel at its warmth. I take notice of my fingers—my “pianist’s hands” as my Aunt Linda used to say—but instead of being long and slender, they are now short and pudgy.
Everything about this seems like a forgotten memory—or a memory that should have been. I crawl across the carpet to get to you. I can barely hold myself up, but looking at you makes me want to. My tiny body settles by your feet. You turn around and scoop me up into your arms. I can’t see your face because it is covered by a blue surgical mask. My fingers tug at the straps of the mask, but you shake your head and gently push my fingers down. My eyes look past your glasses and into your own. They show only exhaustion and deep sadness.
My reflection shows that I am wearing a mask, too. How can I make you smile, I wonder… My chubby little hands push your face upward. When I drop my hands, I hear myself coo in delight at the sight of your blue eyes crinkling at the corners because I know that you are smiling, too.
– Samantha Hensley
Prose, Poetry, and Coffee 