1st Place The FLOORBOARDS

BY NATASHA MORETTI, 8

The cotton blinds tremble, blinks of pearly moonlight flickering in the drafty darkness. The planks sleep in a sheet of glistening silver, dreaming. They remember when she first arrived, her skin youthful, her eyes gleaming naively as she pushed heavy boxes across them. They remember when she sat at the flimsy table, her tired eyes absorbing text in thick books as she slurped curly strands of pale yellow who’s broth spilled and burned their wooden skin. They remember when he entered her world, armed with a suitcase that left them etched with narrow scratches, and a charming mask that had fooled her into innocent love. When the tree’s string of white lights dotted them with glowing stars as he clutched her ringless hands. When the glowing screen illuminated them with funny scenes, as he wrapped her in a gentle embrace, their happy giggles echoing against the walls. They remember his feet stumbled over them crookedly, the room smelling of whisky, and her purple arms dragged him to bed. When her world crumbled because of two pink lines, salty tears dripping onto their scarred boards while they listened to her shocked sobs and angry screams. After that, they remember lively laughter stopped filling the room, the familiar shoes of friends stopped scuffing against them, and she was left. Alone. Believing his lie that solitude was better for her and the tiny human inside of her. They remember when the little infant’s soft feet tentatively took her first wobbly steps across them, and her lips finally spread into a radiant grin, her eyes crinkling as she beamed. They remember when the flames on the striped sticks of wax glittered, as the baby’s fragile hands stuffed satiny cake into her rosy cheeks, and their smooth surface caught sugary frosting falling from her mouth. They remember when the woman collapsed on top of them, barely breathing, dark marks from his pointed shoes on her pink silk blouse. And the wailing lights arrived, casting their blue and red shadows onto them as she disappeared on a plastic board, their wounded oak stained with cranberry.

Now, the dark floors feel the shiver of his snores. A wooden door creaks open, splinters of cold light flood the kitchen. Two pairs of quiet feet float over them, a suitcase trailing behind. The toddler grips a disheveled stuffed sheep and presses it against her chest, as the mother pulls her in the direction of the door. The soft footsteps stop. The woman’s bloodshot eyes turn for one last time. Her bony fingers twist the brass doorknob, her heart fills with uncertainty and then relief as she crosses the threshold and slips into the night. Their polished boards will never forget her.