If you lie on the king bed and stare at the ceiling fan’s chestnut blades spinning in a dizzy circle and if you listen to Billie Holiday (any song, but especially “I’ll Be Seeing You”) while the windows are open during a sticky summer night, and if you’re all alone in your mind, you can change the course of history.
On a night like this, enveloped by the fan’s soft breeze, you can bring your son back to life. You close your eyes and inhale all the air your tired lungs can hold. The ginger-scented candle flickers, casting quick shadows along the stained grey walls.
You see him pedaling that rusted orange bike in reverse, away from traffic—away from the oil tanker with the distracted driver—until he reaches the stop sign. He continues riding backwards, along the tree-lined streets where old men water their lawns and children play street hockey, backwards past the ice cream shop where you took him every Thursday as a boy, backwards past the abandoned baseball diamond where a teenager plays catch with her giant blonde dog. He’s pedaling slower now, until he’s almost home.
Then he arrives and dismounts the bike. You rise from bed to listen, and as he meanders past the blueberry bush towards the front of the house, he opens the screen door and calls for you.
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Nicole Hart is a lawyer living in Westchester, New York, with her husband and two children. Her flash and poetry have been published in JMWW, BULL, and The Lumiere Review. You can find her on Twitter @nicolehart_blog.