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the Bell is Rung
There was that fight. So
long ago I canít remember the reason for it. In the end, I put a curse
on the two of us. I wished you out of my life. You knew I didnít mean
it, but you were hurt just the same. I tried to take it back, but once
you ring a bell, you can't unring it.
We got past it and went on with our
lives. Days turned into weeks, into months, into years. They whisked by
unnoticed, taken for granted. We hardly recognized the changes in
ourselves and each other. These imperceptible alterations are
diabolical in nature, a cruel daily subtraction from where we started.
We don't think about them. We look the other way, never making eye
There finally came a day when I looked
at you and realized you had become as fragile as an egg shell. Youíd
been deceptively rusting from the inside out. All your failing
infrastructure of brain, bone, and muscle, had driven the sum of you
into anarchy. Hunched over your cane, you shuffled through the house,
stopping at doorways to assess where you were. Looking in a mirror and
becoming startled by the person looking back. So many times you looked
at me with a suspicious eye, as though I'm a stranger who just came to
But itís the change of the seasons that
stirs the most chaos. The slowed pace of each midseason provides
stability, something to be counted on. Then, as one season gives in to
the next, you become confused, agitated, and more lost than before.
After a long winter, spring begins to
push its way through. As always, daffodils are the first to answer the
call. Their appearance had always been a welcome sight, but now I view
them with dread. The snow that fell at the onset of winter is the last
to recede. I can only watch as it passively disappears.
Jon Beight lives
and works in Western New York. His stories have been published in Microliterature, Fiction on the
Web, Apocrypha, Abstractions, etc.
front page image is copyright ©
by Tony Kitterick, 2012