I can see where the thunderstorm peaked at four in the morning. Gigi’s quiet whimpers slipping into a place they shouldn’t be, the haze of an apartment with windows for walls. In the distance, a mushroom cloud rises while I’m talking to my mother. “Are we saying goodbye?” I ask, and she tells me to stay inside, take cover. The floor tilts beneath me.
There’s movement beside me. “Can you get Gigi? She’s been whining for the last fifteen minutes.” The mushroom cloud follows as I lean down to unclasp the crate, like a fixed shadow. I lift the sweetest, softest dog from her troubled sleep and nestle her between us. She buries her head where my forearm meets the sheets. I think of nuclear winter, ash falling like snow, the one he told me about before I served our dinner.
(Daily Writing 076)
Thoughts?