Blood Moon
by
by
Anne Frasier/Theresa Weir
I was born under a blood moon. At least that’s what my
grammie always tells me.
“Girl, you came shootin’ out like you couldn’t wait to start
raisin’ hell,” is what she says.
And then her face darkens and she reaches for the bottle.
It ain’t easy knowing your birth killed your own ma. And not
a day goes by but Gram doesn’t remind me that I’m a murderer. And not a day
goes by that I don’t wish I could turn back the clock and be unborn. But it
don’t work that way, and when the townspeople come to the swamp to have their
fortunes told, I cling to their soft, perfumed hands longer than I should
because I want to feel something besides my life with Gram. And even if I sense
bad things, I don’t tell the customers. I look for the positive and happy. I want to see their shoulders relax in
relief. I want to see them smile.
And it don’t hurt that they tip more for good news.
Once they leave, I take the money to Gram and she puts it in
a jar and we sit down by the bed, one on each side. And just like we’ve done
for the past sixteen years, Gram rubs olive oil on my mother’s leathery arms and
legs while I brush our dead darling’s hair, lightly, barely touching so I won’t
do any more damage.
Short story and image by Theresa Weir
Please respect the author and do not copy or reprint image or text.
