Her skin is delicate like tissue paper: sinew and wrist bone, her insides wrapped tight like they’re trying to be her outsides. She’s white but not like heavy cream, more like a hemophiliac — she exudes translucence. I want to hug her.
Gentle, I remind myself, floating toward the doorway.
In my arms, she is sand, spilled across the floor, which is to say I feel myself losing time through cracks in the hardwood. It’s so late the night suggests first light and I’m struck because I miss my mother, my grandmother, my sister, the gnarled oak roots in Northeast Ohio.
Author: Gabe Sherman is a writer based in New York. He loves to cook, play basketball, and watch the seasons change.