“Sidney”

by Blake Bell

Whenever I fly I think of you, of being drunk and dirty, of the disappointment on my father’s face. I showed up full of dog hair and whiskey. We drove to a liquor store where a bottle broke the silence. What do you think of me? You never knew me at 21. I never asked enough; you never got to tell me. The rage and hollowness that stole years from me left my coffers reserved for grief empty and inadequate. You never knew I changed from a snot-nosed kid playing in the snow to a house of cards. One whiff of rye, cracked cheap pleather, and she returns—a broken young woman flying to your funeral.

“Sidney” was originally published in Formercactus on March 15, 2018