By David Henson
You say you feel chilled. I offer to throw another log on the fire. You say that’s a good thing. The chill, not the log.
—
The bathroom mirror is clouded with your breath. I scrape it with my thumbnail. I suggest you see a doctor. You say it’s meant to be that way.
—
You cough softly into your hand, place a hailstone in my palm. When my face rings alarm, you insist you’ve never felt better.
—
You stand at the window, staring at the field behind our yard. I think I hear you say something about the perfect place.
—
After looking in every room, I go to the window and see you in the field. I could try to stop you but know this is what you want. You kneel, lie, open your arms and spread across the field, glistening. I close the blinds to give you privacy.
—
Children clear a space and skate on you. A 12-point buck strolls onto you, sniffs the air, continues across. A red fox chases something I can’t see. You’re a part of it all now.
—
Lengthening days make my mind pace. I make my decision. I think. When the icicles begin weeping from our roof, I know you’re ready. Like me. I think.
—
With every step I feel the weight of my doubts, test the ice, and sense the pull of your spring-fed currents. My gaze skates the scars the children left as I look for fractures, go beyond pine shade safety and brave the full sun. You moan with each advance. Are you warning or inviting? I imagine screaming and thrashing, but go down calmly.
Together.
David Henson and his wife reside in Illinois. His work has been selected for Wigleaf’s Top 50 Very Short Fictions 2026 longlist, nominated for Pushcart Prizes, Best Small Fictions, Best of the Net, and has appeared in various publications including MoonPark Review, Best Microfictions 2025, Ghost Parachute, Maudlin House, and Literally Stories. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His X handle is @annalou8.
