Peach Stain

    There was a small mustard-colored stain on her favorite white t-shirt, but she went back in time to a family road trip when she wore it. They had stopped on the side of the road, and her father bought Georgia peaches from a small wooden stand. A few other cars had pulled over with people that wanted peaches. Some carried whole families like theirs, others were just one or two passengers, but not one other truck held a used refrigerator in the back. Other families bought souvenirs from trips; hers brought their grandparents’ old fridge home. There was a ratty yellow striped tarp over the stand, and she kept fixating on the piece that was lopsided over the edge. They hadn’t eaten in a while, and the peaches were as delicious as they had heard. The juice dribbled down her chin and onto her shirt, and she felt just peachy: warm and fuzzy. The glow of the setting sun cast a golden hue inside the truck. The sky was honey and fire; it faded away like melting butter. Her dad bought a whole bag of peaches after that, and as they drove away, she kept her eyes on the striped tarp until it was just a tiny prick of light in the distance. Everything about that day was golden, her new favorite color permanently etched in her mind.

    She never tried to remove the stain from her shirt because it reminded her how bright and happy she was with her dad. She wasn’t even wearing a white t-shirt that day, and peaches aren’t the color of mustard, but her shirt was soft, and she missed those times. She wore it constantly to hold onto those memories, hoping that things could still change.

    Now she can’t remember the last time she ate a peach, and they haven’t been back to Georgia in a long time. The shirt was no longer white, more parchment than porcelain, more rags than riches. It was too painful to wear, and it made her feel the weight of lost memories. Her dad sold the truck, and the refrigerator broke two years after they brought it home.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Time Heals, or So They Say

22.              I awoke in a sweat. My sheets were tangled around my feet, holding me captive. I pushed my bangs off my forehead. Another nightmare. I moved in slow motion; my body was still in shock. Each lethargic movement made me feel like it took hours before I fully sat up. I was exhausted and tired, but not enough to go back to sleep. I stared at the dusky light flitting through the slits of the blinds. The sun’s orange rays brightened my room from complete darkness into hazy light. By the time the rest of the world started to wake, my heartbeat finally slowed. I allowed my breaths to calm me, convincing myself I was safe. I wasn’t trapped. I wasn’t under attack. They told me it would take time to heal. It’s been seven years now, seventeen weeks since the last nightmare. 21.              The walk from my bed to the bathroom seemed to take twenty years. By the time I walked in and turned on the shower, I had to ...
Read more

When A Brother Isn't Really A Brother

After the pastor spoke his final words, they released the doves into the sky. The doves. We call them doves. They’re just pigeons, the same birds that annoy us and beg us for food. But when they’re pretty and trained, we watch them with awe. I watched them fly for as long as possible until the sun blinded my eyes. It was hot and bright outside. I looked over at my parents and studied their faces. I couldn’t tell if it was tears or sweat dripping down my father’s cheek. I imagined how difficult it was that the weather didn’t match their somber grief. Our clothes were black and dusty, making the suffocating heat unbearable. Eventually, everyone began to leave the gravesite. Friends and family walked by us to give their condolences. My father couldn’t stop crying, but my mother had stopped days ago. She was stoic, but even I was surprised at her stony, blank expression when my aunt told her how good of a mother she had been. It was hard having a brother who didn’t outlive his mother. ...
Read more

The Dance of the Elevator

https://youtu.be/4CVXQq230Hg The elevator doors opened, and she walked in. She pressed the button for the fifteenth floor and waited for the doors to close. As soon as they did, she leaned her head back against the mirror wall and held onto the handle for support. She was tired, more tired than the day before, and even more than the day before that. It seemed like every meaningless long day morphed into the next. She longed to take off the heels and stifling pressed clothes she wore every day. She looked down at her briefcase and pointy shoes. She closed her eyes, picturing herself living her dream of wearing a different pointed shoe.             The elevator began to grow, the mirrored walls expanded, the shiny floor turned into hardwood, the metal handrail morphed into a wooden barre. When she opened her eyes, she was wearing pointe shoes and ballet clothing. Someone sitting behind a large grand piano on the far end of the room st...
Read more