Image of a vase of dying peonies.The way I remember it, your dad was dying, not mine, his purple-blotched feet peeking out the edge of the hospice bed, its cold rails raised against a fall. Either a cross or a froth of agnosticism clutched in one hand. Either the priest or the doctor slouched in the hallway, a bible or a sleep-packed syringe in a chokehold. Peonies slumping in vases. Was it your mother or mine shopping for a black dress or pantsuit, a take-home roast beef or ham and scalloped potatoes for guests not yet gathered? Grandchildren galloping, quarreling in the yard. Clucking like chickens.




Mikki Aronoff has work in New World Writing, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Tiny Molecules, The Disappointed Housewife, and elsewhere. She has received Pushcart and Best Microfiction nominations.

Photo Credit: burrs&berries

One Response to “Clutch”

  1. Amina Ibrahim Didi says:

    Loved this! A clear picture formed in my mind with those few words!

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