I know it’s time even before I answer, I pull on my clothes while you make coffee, inhale the coffee while you shower, pace the house while you dress, “Come Now” repeating in my head, you snap like a mad man when I tell you to hurry, we sit in mad traffic, drive in mad silence until my cellphone rings again; “She’s gone,” the nurse says, and I yell like a mad wife, and you yell even madder; that she was your mother, not mine—then we drive in mad silence until you whisper; that you didn’t want to see her die, and I squeeze your hand, your fingers melting into mine, and try not to think of her dying alone—try not to wonder if I’ll die alone too.
Karen Crawford currently lives in the City of Angels where she exorcises demons one word at a time. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Potato Soup Journal, Sledgehammer Lit, Flash Boulevard, Reflex Fiction, The Ekphrastic Review, Six Sentences among others. You can find her on Twitter @KarenCrawford_
image: Kelsey Zimmerman is a writer and artist from Michigan currently living in Iowa. Her work is published or forthcoming in Nurture: A Literary Journal, Ghost City Review, Unlost Journal, and The Indianapolis Review.