by Salena Casha
Sometimes, I imagine them like a white-hot sun, mostly because at school, when Ms. Carruthers told us not to look at the sun directly, we did it anyway. See who could stand it the longest. We’d remove our Barbie sunglasses and squint until we had to blink, the aftermath glinting behind our lids in oil-spill rosettes.
Like stealing a bit of light, she used to say.
I imagine them like a sun, the headlights, because even though I wasn’t with her at the end, it makes me think she saw them and pretended. Closed her eyes.
Maybe, thought of me.
Author: Salena Casha’s work has appeared in over 100 publications in the last decade. Her most recent words can be found in HAD, Metaphorosis Magazine, and Flash Frog. She survives New England winters on good beer and black coffee. Subscribe to her substack at salenacasha.substack.com.