Dark

She asked me once what’s it like not to dream and I said: Nothing. Imagine nothing, the vast black of it. Like climbing into a mineshaft, the way my dad did every day until the earth opened up and swallowed him and a dozen other men. You’re not your father, she insists. But I am. I’m his hands and his little toe, the same sideways curl to it. I have his eyebrows and mouth, his stomach for jalapeños, a thirst for raw whiskey from a jar. Every night, I climb into a mineshaft and fall into sleep, feeling my way.

Artist: NASA Goddard Space Flight Center

2 Responses to “Dark”

1. Cody Schweickert says:

   February 10, 2015 at 4:55 am

   I love the brilliant use of poignant images to describe the father–“jalapeños” and “raw whiskey.” This writer tackles the difficult task of showing the reader rather than telling them.

   Reply
   • sarah says:

     March 14, 2015 at 2:26 pm

     Thanks, Cody!

     Reply