The Island of Flannel Sheets
She’s wailing for me again. Always me, her harbor. In one swift motion I scoop her up like treasure, whisking her to my side of the bed—our own private island made of flannel sheets.
She slurps and claws at my chest with her too-long fingernails, leaving scratches on my skin like a cat marking its territory.
As if I wasn't already forever marked.
A piece of sweaty hair starts to curl next to her ear. I twirl my finger around it, glancing at a book on my nightstand just out of reach next to a mug of stale coffee and a half-full glass of water.
I say half-full because I’m holding her and how could anything be half-empty when my greatest prayer has turned to flesh?
She sighs, belly full. I lift her to my face, inhaling, thanking God for the scent of grapefruit and innocence and spoiled milk. Her eyes drift closed. I still can’t reach the book. Just as well.
I spent the last ten minutes writing a chapter of my own. I call this one: The Island of Flannel Sheets.
