Unexamined, Unacknowledged

A flash fiction piece by Brooklyn Olson

His eyes hold the sky within them, the grey a whispered threat of rain. I see in them the reflection of a dog, loyal and patient, begging for her master’s safe return.

Hard-earned lessons cover his hands, the kind won while chopping a growing pile of wood. I see in the deep creases the perpetual praises his grandfather would give while insisting he continue.

“It builds character,” he’d say, “just like my granddad had me do.”

His hunched shoulders entomb his mother. She used to lift his chin or poke his back to help correct his posture. After carrying her casket, he gave up trying to straighten himself. The casket was heavy for a woman so often slighted. He’d tell anyone that she deserved better than she got.

He cleans his glasses on his store-bought scarf. Long were her shakes stronger than the needles, but his mother never had excelled at making wearable crafts. She preferred the mental arts. The insights she dispensed at book club were widely treasured: I wonder if the unopened book on his lap had been one

she recommended. I can’t make out its title from my position.

We have this in common: rather than read, he chooses to stare out the window, now rain-streaked and fogging. What does he think he’ll find outside of the book? Does he look to find himself in the likeness of some passing stranger?

The bus stops. He stands to get off. He glances back as if forgetting something, and I don’t make eye contact.

A young woman gets on and takes his seat.

Fire marks her lips, the crimson ripe with burning ambitions. They shine like the child left with her babysitter, the only reason she bothers with such a cumbersome commute.

She opens the book on her lap.