by Karin Hedetniemi
It’s graphite dark as I pull on my favorite sweater — the old cotton one the color of the sea — misshapen, small holes in the shoulders, soft and thin as petals. The one I finally decided to thank for all the memories, offering my firm and final good-bye, then fished out of the trash can ten seconds later.
My sleep-deprived eyes are puffy. Vague dream fragments of my mother, aging and afraid of night, cloud my thoughts. I haven’t yet brushed my teeth or hair, haven’t had a sip of coffee, but in the gray slip of dawn, I pop one dark chocolate square in my mouth while fumbling to plug in the toaster.
The dogs are snuggled on our bed, a humid, contented wolf den. I bring you a cup of coffee and you murmur, Why are you so pretty in the morning? and I squint, I’ve been awake since five, and you stroke my cheek and say, Happy Tuesday because you know I’ve been planning to go down to the beach earlier and stay longer this time, hoping to find a fishing float or a starfish, and I realize, maybe you say these tender things because and especially in such threadbare light, I have never been more myself.
Karin Hedetniemi is a writer, traveller, and photographer from Vancouver Island, Canada. Her creative nonfiction is published in Lunch Ticket, Prairie Fire, Hinterland, Tiny Molecules, Nurture, and other literary journals. In 2020, Karin won the nonfiction contest from the Royal City Literary Arts Society. Between adventures, Karin stewards a free little library and shares her creative work at AGoldenHour.com.
Emerge Literary Journal 