#FlashFiction #amwriting #shortshortstory #prosepoem

The Chandeliertraditional-chandeliers


For one thing, the chandelier is too low. Imagine trying to walk your way around those baubles twenty or thirty times a day, cocking your head to one side or the other, all that energy wasted for what? Who would live like that? Everything in the house is in disarray but nothing more so than the chandelier with it’s crystal tears and rings and wires. There are dishes in the sink and cloths scattered over the floor and drawers open and contents spilled out across the floor, batteries, scissors, that postcard from the vacation to Puerto Rico where you fell on the sidewalk and ran crying to the thin woman under the awning who helped you find your parents. ¬†You were how old then? Five? You cried when you stood on the balcony and watched the ocean stretching back home, your fingers holding fast to the railing as your parents packed the suitcases. You vowed never to leave no matter the consequences, but you did. You left that day, the plane humming on the tarmac hot on the soles of your sandals. You never returned and so broke your vow, the first of many. Maybe that’s why it upsets you so now, the postcard torn from the drawer and lying on the old green carpet under the crooked chandelier, it’s light bent over the room like some old hunched crone calling your name. You said you’d come back, the crone says. We waited for you, all of us. We had dinner prepared. We had the grill ready. The children are singing still.