Apricots

Elea Besse

Apricots look like the sun. Bare feet slap the sidewalk, calloused toes dance lightly on the sharp driveway. The sun kisses my lips, as I eagerly eat the decadent fruit clenched between my sticky fingers. My lips part, revealing a crooked-tooth grin. I reach the curb and plant my bum, sending calloused toes to hang over the edge. Suddenly, I feel a slight flicker of fire in my soul. There it is again, just now, lightly knocking on my door. “Let’s go,” it whispers. I limply hold the rough pit in my hand.

Nevermind the edge of this curb is one I’ve never crossed alone.

Polly Pockets, lemon meringue, frozen quesadillas, mom, running around naked, grandma. All on this side of the curb. I stand up, toes walking the line between what is unknown and what is mine. So I take one valiant step. What now? I take another. I glance back. X marks the spot where I used to stand. I can see it, yet I’ll never stand in that spot again, not really. So I walk on with zest in my step and the sun’s core in my hand.

Ice Fishing

Sean Edstrom

by CAROL RUMENS