These are the things they don’t tell us.
– Girl Du Jour, from Notes on Uvalde
I’m floating up, out of the operating room ceiling, through walls, the roof of the hospital, and into the night sky. Drowsy in the black expanse, I feel warm in a giant palm that closes around my nakedness. My hospital gown flutters down and away, a falling flag of surrender.
I awake in a sycamore tree whose limbs drape over the moonlit headstone of my grandparents. I hear what sounds like laughter — but more like tinkling glass — above me and look up. They are birds of a species the living have never seen; yet they aren’t birds. I know them.
These are the things they don’t tell us. Earth is a closed system with myriad dimensions to it. Depending on where you are in your cycle will determine where your consciousness exists. There is no need to grieve for the lost, as they aren’t.
I am today’s host of dVerse’ Prosery. I say:
Write a piece of flash fiction or other prose up of up to or exactly 144 words, including the given line from the poem.
Top image: The Open Hand Monument at the Capitol Complex in Chandigarh, India, designed by French Modern architect Le Courbusier
UPDATE on 060922. Speech given by Matthew M. about the Uvalde shooting victims: