I Watched Him by Jennifer Hurley I am no source of honey or sweet but a swarm of domesticated honeybees buzz wintry-weak in my stomach, their fuzz bristly wire bottle brushes slowly scraping away cleaning what’s (left) inside. The emptiness overwhelms early in the day when the house is so quiet sun yellow warm I forget to crowd the halls with memories my son simply hiding, shadows. He had loved playing in the front yard pines lining the edge and he knew better at least I thought I taught him better but he ran into the street after a dry brown oak leaf bigger than my hand curling edges teased him along his fingers reaching out never taking hold. Alone I watched him from the living room window not even sure what I was doing so I’ll say drying a glass to prevent water spots not protesting because I didn’t know I didn’t know how far he would run or how unnaturally his body would hover legs splayed arms limp socks bloody. Italicized text from Sylvia Plath’s “T
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.