Blink, blink, blink. Think of the word blink. A noise, a flash, a promise. Intimidation. Blink. Blink, blink. Startled, we blink. Frightened, we blink. Words starting with the letter B are the most satisfying to say, blink, bastard, buffalo, by the way, I think your cup’s full. Beret, barely, bloke.
The cursor blinks.
The woman sits in the coffee shop, in the corner, she sits cross-legged because though she has to go she’s not moving until she is at least a full paragraph in.
Two weeks ago, more, the woman’s father died. He had cancer. It was only in his suffering that she discovered her pride in him. She held his hand, she rubbed his gold and diamond signet ring with her thumb, polishing a spot to warm.
She was his daughter. She felt old, responsible, caring and she felt young and in his thrall because he was back to being the hero he was when she was young.
When you’re young you don’t know about expectation. All days are new ones. If it weren’t so interesting and usual at the same time you’d notice discovery.
The woman remembers when her children were young and thinking about what it must be like to see things for the first time everyday of your life. A baby can’t celebrate the newness but his mother can.
At some point discovery becomes ordinary. Patterns are slipped into. Usual sets in. Soon there is no such thing as a hero.
The sheets are white, the blanket is white also, and the woman’s father is dressed in a soft and blue hospital gown. Instead of a cape, her hero wears a gown. His head is hot. She feels the heat on her lips when she kisses his forehead. She wets a face washer with cool water and drapes it across his forehead, she has no idea whether it helps, or hinders, but it is something she can do for him. He’s asleep. In his sleep, he twists and cries. She lays her head on his chest, and a hand on his ribs, and hopes that he knows this is her telling him she loves him.
The cursor blinks.
the ring went with him