Vertigo
Matthew Sutton Johnnie held the card closed, creased over her middle finger. After some time and by an act of her thumb, she opened the card and reread the words. Johnnie, your vertigo and the anniversary of Cooper’s passing—two reasons to let you know I’m thinking of you. Love, Your Brother. Clasping the card, she brought her hand to her mouth and stifled a grievous ebullition. The movement was detached from her will as if she had been manipulated by the whim of a deft puppeteer. Her husband’s thudding footsteps preceded him. “Morning, hun.” Two hairy-knuckled hands came to rest on her shoulder, and Doug planted a breathy kiss on her cheek. Johnnie winced, but her gaze remained forward, out the back window. Beyond the chicken-scratched Bermuda grass and over the gentle lake, the day made its morning lustrations, cleansing itself of the night. Sunlight flickered through undulant tree-tops while dissonant tweets and whistles from dining birds kept rhythm with the dull hum of a far-off boat.
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Iron Horse Literary Review
