April 1, 2017 orangeq2017

In Particular

Kathleen Glasgow

 

After the cold snap, her grandmother’s fingers hunched up like newborn mice around the edges of the newspaper. That same day, the beauty queen from the mill town wore a dress the exact color of the northeast portion of the sky on the edge of the next-over town: fuchsia, like the splintery eye of an early hurricane. Like the moment before a moment occurs and everything shifts. Color of notice. Lilacs appeared near a bench in a park in the biggest city in the state, next to a pair of white tennis shoes, girls’ size two. They were still clearing out the car, its devastated wreck wrapped forlornly around the light pole. The bodies inside were final as a shut book. The papers were already beginning to report a strange phenomenon of discomfort: a flapping piece of that afternoon’s edition essayed the long winter, the sparkling and avid ice, the strange and spontaneous crying on subways and near junctions that had yet to be built. Her curled fingers followed each printed word as she listened to the sky inside her body not change at all.

 

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