NothingleftbuttheFord

Micro-fiction

Sitting cutting newspaper confetti all day, intheFord. Broke into the house again, not breaking, name’s still on the house deed. Slippers, furry, someone else’s. Bought the seat cover, furry, thinking of her. Back in the Ford all day, sitting, cutting. Thinking about the lit Christmas tree, not there to say, turnitoff. Someone else’s coffee mug: not the one from my Ben though, not my Ben who is also gone. Stone reads: Service Courage Life. It should just say Gone: like me. She’d’ve packed myhis mug away now, filled it up with crumpled newspaper; thatstaysmine. Christmas tree—missing one thing, two, three. NothingleftbuttheFord. Cot at the shelter, gym showers, mirror shocking white skin—five days to Christmas, justanotherday, Fred, justanotherday. In the Ford’s dark, floating silence, knock at the window. Young man, gel in his hair, pine branch with glass bulbs, snow trapped inside. Says nothing, hands me the branch. NothingleftbuttheFord, a branch, and confetti snowfall on the ground.