Fiction

Missed Pieces

By: Yash Seyedbagheri

At nightfall, my mother’s bathed in pale blue, tangerine, and pink clouds. Her words are confident, replete with nicknames and jokes. Her gait soothes, a clickety-clack of heels.

But at midnight, the crack of the fridge and the pop of a cork awaken me.

I catch her, wine bottle in hand.

She stumbles and the bottle shatters, glass dispersed a thousand directions.

She weeps. Murmurs deflated nicknames and fragmented sentences about work and bills.

I tell her it’s fine. I’ve cleaned up before.

She smiles, that old crooked smile.

I always miss pieces. It’s inevitable.

But I won’t tell her.

###

Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His story, “Soon,” was nominated for a Pushcart. Yash has also had work nominated for Best of the Net and The Best Small Fictions. A native of Idaho, Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, and Ariel Chart, among others.

Categories: Fiction

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