The Small Things
A Halls of Pandemonium Day 30 Prompt Response
The ceiling fan turns lazily above me, uncaring that there will not be another afternoon for me. My son is crying. I wish he wouldn’t waste these seconds on grief. The room smells faintly of oranges. Funny. I haven’t thought about that tree in forty years. Breathing is work now. Then it isn’t.
Everyone says your life flashes before your eyes. Mine doesn’t.
Only small things remain. A small hand in mine. A summer field. A laugh carried by wind. Not the years. Not the losses. The accumulation—the proof that I was here.
Then even that drifts away.
This is a response to day 30’s prompt for Bradley Ramsey’s “Halls of Pandemonium” writing event. Although I’m not participating in the scoring portion of the event (you know, since I, uh… wrote the backend for it), likes, comments and restacks will (maybe) help us achieve community goals and spread the word about the challenge.