Stories About Things Read Online Free

chipped in hundreds of
places, where the urn's lid had crashed down again and again, knew
many times the memory had been forced back on her.
    Another crash made her twitch and before she
could stop herself she called his name.
    "Caleb?"
    Then she felt herself blush and looked away
in disappointment as her mother walked in. Cora stared at the urn
before two manicured hands swept it away.
    "Why do you stare at that like he's still
here? You should be moving on, forgetting the past. That's how you
deal with it dear; it's what they all say."
    Cora had not found her mother's pop
psychology advice helpful in the least and ignored it now. She was
silent as her mother moved about the room brushing off tabletops
and straightening rugs She'd hidden the urn behind the
bookshelves.
    "Honey, it's been three years. Honestly,
sometimes it's like you don't even know he's gone."
    Cora didn't listen, she was still trying to
crawl away from the real memories. But they chased her down. Her
mind sat in the hospital waiting room--it really was a cell now.
Still waiting, waiting, waiting. But they wouldn't come home
together. She didn't look at her mother.
    "Now, this one's a real gentleman so try not
to scare him away before the second date, okay?"
    Date? Cora flinched. Not again. Not
Again!
    Her mind crawled faster, away from the
memories of her mothers matchmaking attempts. She didn't know
whether her mother did this to remind her that Caleb was dead, or
to remind her of all the men she could have agreed to marry instead
.
    "And please tell me you've cleared out his
things. The last thing he needs to see is another man's clothes in
your room. Come on now he'll be here soon."
    "He?"
    "Your date, hon. His name is Chris."
    That wasn't the "he" she was thinking
about.
    "Go get dressed, honey! He'll be here soon, I
told him to come for brunch."
    She was tired, and didn't have the strength
to fight this. Without a word or thought, she went and dressed.
    When the doorbell rang she opened it and she
looked into a pair of brown eyes. But all she could see was grey
ashes.
    Standing in the living room, not listening to
her mother's chatter she looked at the new pair of eyes. They
seemed disembodied–they had no body that Cora could see, anyway.
She could not have said whether he were tall or short or handsome
or repulsive. It didn't matter.
    The brown eyes swept over the shelves full of
cookbooks.
    "Do you cook?" he asked hopefully.
    "No." she said. "I don't"
     
     

S EVEN
First Impressions
     
    Those shoes!
    To kiss those shoes... To bend over them,
brush a cheek against the jade toes... Velour? Velvet? Oh to caress
that fabric and find out! Just the shoes... Just the shoes.
    The skirts don't match.
    Yellow petals brush the green toes. Each
layer is translucent in the sun, but hung together, the piece is
opaque. Like a daffodil.
    A slender yellow stalk sways above the skirt.
Dress... a dress, not a skirt.
    "Don't take a pretty book home just cuz it's
pretty," Mom always said, "and a girl neither."
     
     
    Somewhere above the shoes, above the dress,
there are eyes.
    The flower smiles.
    Not at him.
    The flower has brown eyes, a bright brown,
almost-red. They smile. They don't shine in the sun. They
shine at the sun. A street sign, a bus shelter, a sidewalk,
cement cubicles a hundred feet high--a daffodil grows at their
feet. Oh to look into those eyes and see them looking back!
    But no, he couldn't bear it.
    Don't look. Don't look... But it's
like hoping the sun doesn't shine. Look. Please look.
    They do.
    Our children will have those eyes.
    The sun is dumb beside them... shining down
stupid on the grey world. No understanding, no discretion, bright
only in color. But the eyes in the flower are bright. Intelligent.
Looking on the world, smart and kind. The street sign, the bus
shelter, the sidewalk, the cement cubicles--the flower makes sense
of it all.
    The eyes say so.
    So much in two eyes in a flower. So much...
Our children... our children will have