Green

My mother spent her days knitting nooses. Holding her long needles trailing ropes of undecided blue she would rock slowly in the corner. Back and forth, back and forth, until the creaking drove my father insane. He screamed then and threw glass fireworks.

Later I’d free the shards from the coils and loops of yarn. Somehow, the glass was always green and the yarn was always blue and I never understood why the grass and the sky tried to tear each other apart. I asked my mother why the world kept breaking, but she cast me a smile that never reached her eyes. Her fingers never stopped knitting the noose that one day hung her from the ceiling.

The fireworks exploded across her dress front and my father thundered and I cried because the blue and green never quit fighting. The world kept fracturing and no one ever smiled and I couldn’t understand why because no one explained it to me.

So I curled up on the floor beneath my mother as she swayed back and forth, back and forth. My father wasn’t there to listen to the thump thump of the ceiling fan slicing through her hair because he’d gone to buy more glass. Soon the blue faded until there was nothing but green, green grass and green bottles, and the lonely sky winked out for the last time.

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