Timing, she says. A future painted in glimmering gold—doors open, doors close. Standing still for too long, your feet get numb and your muscles atrophy and you forget how to feel. There is an order to things. On the surface of the moon. Under a sun-streaked sky. Longing for the gentle touch of a hand. What hand? How gentle?
Stay silent for years, trapped in a box with no windows and no doors convinced there is no way out. Hobbes said, Hell is truth seen too late. The cloud cover swirls in the shape of an eye. I can’t hear the clock ticking anymore. How late is too late, she asks. Are you sleeping? Do you rest?
A blade of grass tickles her ankle, and she smiles. She pulls out the hand-stitched squares, the antique lace. Summer dew covers the leaves and squirrels dart between trees. Boys on bicycles pedal along the gravel road. Morning is the best time. In the morning, we embroider a new world.
Mary Lynn Reed’s fiction has appeared in Mississippi Review, Colorado Review, The MacGuffin, Litro Magazine, Smokelong Quarterly, and Wigleaf, among other places. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from The University of Maryland, and she is co-Editor of MoonPark Review.