Photo by Unsplash+
by Kathryn Silver-Hajo
You must’ve stretched, yawned, rolled over on your mat before grasping the cord, toppling the lamp onto your hand, bulb searing skin. Your breath must’ve caught in your throat, cheeks flaring red as flame, before screams split the air. Your mother must’ve run in, heart pounding, fetched a cool washcloth, dabbed balm to soothe. For years now you’ve known how you got that continent of a scar, yet still wonder how she could’ve let it happen. Your own child drowses on the mattress beside you now—milk drunk and sloe-eyed—the sight of your face lulling him to sleep. You cradle his downy crown in your palm, mind wandering to all the mistakes you’re bound to make, all the while sure you’re doing the right thing.
Kathryn Silver-Hajo is the 2023 Pushcart Prize, Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, Best American Food Writing nominated author of a flash collection and YA novel.
