Fiction by Christine Breede
My son has outgrown me. He leans down for a fleeting hug, then turns away; he’s already on his way out again. I stand with both hands on my hips, eyes following him, seeing a boy in a man’s body. Where are you going?
Maybe this is a story about destinations.
We are not talking, I say. Why can’t we sit and talk? What’s going on? I ask. My son is making plans with a friend on the phone, and I am asking him to speak to me—now.
Maybe this is a story about making plans.
I buy new books, schedule yoga classes and getaways. I see my friends, spend quality time with my partner, eat out and eat in, plant herbs, work more than I should. I’m energized in the morning and drained by nightfall when I see his room empty.
Maybe this story is about newness.
I am listening to my son’s voice change. I am watching him cook pasta al dente and call the hairdresser himself. He talks to my mother whenever we visit, making her laugh—until he stands at her grave, now speaking to her in a whisper. We miss her and her voice on the phone, unmistakable above all others. I feel the void and the void growing.
Maybe voices are the story.
I remind my son of when we took a gondola in Venice, boy and mom, and after a minute of rocking in the dark canal, before we even left the pier, he closed his eyes. I remember this, he says. What can you remember? I say. You didn’t see a thing. I know, he says, that’s what I remember.
Maybe remembering is the story.
Pictures from years ago pop up on my phone. My son looking at a pumpkin as if it were an oracle. His mister spy eyes under ruler-straight bangs no one understood but him. The two of us with ice cream cones and big smiles. My head leaning on his shoulder after a birthday dinner.
Maybe this story is about appreciation.
Everything about him is as it should be. I have a strong sense of his being. He has a strong sense of his being. But I don’t know where we are.
Maybe fear is the story.
I am watching my son grow big and myself grow old. It’s about aging with grace, someone says. Who the hell ages gracefully? It’s about aging with mischief, with bold beliefs, with a heart in the right place, I tell myself on a good day.
Maybe courage is the story.
His eyes are telling me his heart is in the right place. His stillness is telling me I need to listen. I watch him get ready to go out. I resist an impulse to go over to him, resist again. I feel the space between us and the space within me.
Maybe this story is about listening to space.
Christine Breede writes long, short, and very short fiction. Her work has been recognized by several leading contests. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2020 and has won the 2022 Bumble Bee Flash Fiction Contest. Working and collaborating with fellow writers is one of the things she enjoys most.
