Gratitude to Dash Journal, published by California State University, Fullerton (CSUF), for publishing my (very) short story, “Later, That Same Morning.”
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Later, That Same Morning
It is still dark.
She sleeps, turning uncomfortably in the sagging, too-large bed. She reaches to feel his body, and cannot—he is not there.
And then there is light.
She opens her eyes and sits up. She thinks and feels her head, the graying throb, that constant pain. She looks at herself across the room in the full-length mirror. Even from here it’s noticeable: a slight swelling, just above her lip. If one were to look closely, the shape of a circle would be discernible. Perhaps the kind of imprint a plain, round gold ring might leave. She looks away, quickly, toward the closet, that tight cluster of starched green uniforms, lined in still precision like the men who wore them.
The woman in the mirror surprises her. She frowns, realizing what an automatic gesture it’s become. And yet, somehow, the more she gazes at herself in the mirror, the less she recognizes the face trapped in the polished glass. Had she grown accustomed to staring into her own eyes in the hope that after a while she might forget? By looking so furtively at what she didn’t want to see, perhaps it would further decrease the resemblance of a mother she scarcely knew? Would it ameliorate the misgivings and lost time? Would it explain the secrets? Would it reveal the truth behind the trap doors she locked before ever opening them?
She looks over at the dresser, the pictures: mostly from the past, a few recent ones. Young faces, older faces, the same faces, all of them smiling in the same strained manner. And it occurs to her: You should only smile when you feel like smiling.
She absorbs the room, digesting these discordant images that slowly suffocate her each time she breathes them in. Everything around her is there for a reason, just as there’s a reason for everything that surrounds her. The taut symmetry, like a muffled scream: a reflection of her life.
