Silhouettes

By Cristina-Iuliana Burlacu

She didn’t remember much of her father. All she had from him was in a shoe box in the back of her wardrobe with old dusty photos and the medals he had received post-mortem.

But sometimes, when the bridge to her childhood lured her, she would conjure him. Then, shadows would fly in the flickering light and she’d lift her eyes to the ceiling.

There, rooted deep in the sole memory that would never go away, a tree of hands would dance in the night and she would smile, enchanted, an indefatigable audience of devoted fingers that would never grow old…