In Mourning
Aquel Verano | Francisca Reyes
Written by: Emma Mathes
I could feel the heat of outside in the cracks of light through the window shade. If my mother could see me now, she would chastise me for languishing in bed past the sun’s tallest hour. But I feel no motivation in my grieving bones to rise into the air.
I stretch, and slide to the ground with the weight of gravity. My hands wring before running over my face and through my hair. I scream.
And then I rise, to eat or attend the bathroom. Anything quick before I spend another summer’s day in the safe comfort of my bed.
