Dirges of Dust
Paint flecked her forearm like freckles. She stared at the windowsill in front of her for a moment. The moonlight crept over her shoulders and caught at its outer corners, the silhouette of her son’s bed creeping into view. Spent cigarette filters littered the ground at her feet. She’d painted without scrubbing first, sweeping over the ashes scattered across the worn wood. She picked up one of the discarded butts, balancing it beside the paintbrush in her fingertips. She wiped her forehead, and the bristles in her hand caught the edge of her bandana. Her second oldest would be home soon. She needed to finish up. A chill swept across her skin, and she rubbed at the goosebumps on her arms, smearing some of the paint. She picked up her supplies, kicked tanbark over the remnants of Levi’s vice, and took a few steps toward the kitchen door. She turned, one last look, checking if, from far enough away, everything looked cared for.
The kitchen door flinched as she opened it, sticking at the lock before giving way. Isaac’s boots were gone from their spot beside the baseboard, and she stilled for a moment. Levi must have taken them. She pressed her lips together, pulling them between her teeth and biting down, eyes closed. The fridge whirred to life, humming against her bones. Balancing her shoulder against the wall, she worked the toe of her left sneaker against the heel of the right, removing and tucking each behind the door in the emptied space. She then slid the dirtied paint cup and brush into the stack of dishes already piled in the sink. She reached back to nudge the door shut and startled at the sight of Levi there, shutting it himself.
Isaac’s boots fit him, and even the caked farm mud falling from their grooves was familiar. But the face was too young. Levi’s brows furrowed and she wondered if disappointment was genetic, if sons inherited their father’s frustrations as easily as they did their jawlines.
Levi leaned down to unlace the boots. Silence slid between them, dripped along the tips of their fingers, soaked into the grout of the tiles. He slipped his feet free, the boots tumbling in the middle of the doormat. A few specks of dirt flung toward her, and she picked at the paint still stuck to her skin. He moved past her, heading back the hallway.
“Levi.” Her voice cracked around his shoulders, carrying remnants of cremated ashes. “Your brother’s boots don’t belong there.”
He turned and looked at her. Black and blue years stretched beneath his eyes. “Yeah, well.” Headlights lit up the kitchen window. “Looks like Dad’s home.”
She watched him recede, watched him fumble in his pocket before disappearing into his brother’s room, shutting the door as his father grasped the kitchen knob and she scratched at the stains on her hands.
Lynne Reeder lives through words. She writes them, reads them, teaches them, and believes in them always. A four-time Perry County Poet Laureate, her work has been featured in multiple online journals and print anthologies, including Recenter Press, The Soapbox Volume I and II, and Strange Magic. When not writing, Lynne finds meaning in mentoring student writers and playing a small part in fueling their futures. Learn more about Lynne and her works at www.lynnereeder.com.