I left the laptop open like a mouth; walked to the other end of the room; stared at the greening water in the vase of peonies from my birthday last week; changed their water with the delicate solemnity of ritual, first taking care to dump it away from the dishes still dirty in the sink and then listening to the shush of running water filling ceramic; placed the vase back on the coffee table; and silently gathered the shed petals of velvety white (that had once, only moments ago, been pink) after opening the email about your ovarian cancer, stage three.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 1.
Gretchen Bartels-Ray lives with her husband and toddler in San Diego, California and teaches English at California Baptist University. Her poetry has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, KAIROS Literary Magazine, Voices de la Luna, and Sojourners, and her flash fiction has also been published at Every Day Fiction. Her most recent project combines painting and poetry.
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