By Susan Young
She stands on the cliff, too close to the edge. Stones crumbling. Wind pushing.
“Are you OK?”
Her eyes open to the glare of the café’s over-polished floor.
Headache lingering. Her mother’s will open on the table, decorated with dots of salty tears, smudging the red ink like blood splatter.
He brings an eggnog oat milk cappuccino. Extra hot. No foam.
The neon ‘Welcome’ sign lights the space between them.
The numbness of grief filters the oblivious room, crowded with smiling couples who smell like warm cinnamon.
Hand in hand he holds her back as they stand on the precipice together.
That’s beautiful.
Nuff said.