by Charley Harris-Unsplash+
by Mikki Aronoff
Not a present in sight. Or hidden. Not even flowers or a store-bought or home-made card. Mom grabs a ladderback chair, drags it to the broom closet, slams the door shut and sulks. Dad shivers from the chill he doesn’t quite understand, locks himself in the bathroom with a Reader’s Digest. And so it goes, every year, a crescendoing cacophony of collective misery—Dad forgetting, Mom locking herself away, weeping buckets and gasping for air, a flood of her tears seeping out from under the door; Dad closed off in the water closet, sighing every five minutes, fake-flushing the toilet every ten; Tippy the Beagle bereft, nails clicking the floors as he paces, baying for Mom and Dad, panic-scratching at closed doors; neighbors yelling keep it down while knocking broomsticks on their ceiling; and my brother and I cranking our music up loud, burying our heads in our homework, grateful for any take-home assignments and Dino’s Darn Good Pizza on speed dial.
Mikki Aronoff writes tiny stories in New Mexico. Her writing has received Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories, and Best Microfiction nominations.
