16 December 2007

— tara —

Little Tara started crying earlier than usual today, it’s the only sound she made since Ma left two months ago and nothing has been the same ever since. Soon enough, he’ll hear her and the sky will fall all over again.

Sleeping on the couch meant he drank himself into another stupor, his heavy snoring meant he’d hopefully stay that way for most of the morning.

Tara was hungry and with only dry pasta remaining in the cupboard and some long forgotten milk that curdled into a thick paste, Tara didn’t know any better, so she sat on the kitchen floor amid spilled spaghetti, her soiled nightie hiked to her waist revealed dried blood on her chubby thighs. The violation was beyond her grasp.

Tears, from her almond opaque eyes, created two clean rivulets on each of her grimy, blackened cheeks. Tara’s matted hair, the color of discarded wheat, stuck to her enlarged head.

She tried a smile but couldn’t find one; still she came to my bruised arms. As the screen door slammed, I quickly grabbed her hand and lead her down the back steps.

“Wash her in the creek, then bring her back. You hear me, boy?” Our father hollered, shattering the innocence of our strides.

T.R. McKee is the mother of three grown children, who is enjoying her free time writing now. Other stories of hers are or are scheduled to be published in The Green Silk Journal, Shine—The Journal, Flash Flooding and Apollo's Lyre. She can be reached for comments at trm2@bellsouth.net.

Comments?