Three Micros by Ron Burch
Storage
Midair, feet above the sand, the ocean a blur, he levitates the second I take the picture.
I find it behind the desk, an exile. I don’t remember why he runs, if for purpose or fun. He wears red shorts and a white t-shirt with an unknown logo, his arms pump as he sprints forward into the future.
I place the picture with the others in the cardboard box, sealing it with tape, a small window forming in the center, the clear tape covering his form unattached to the earth, forever running.
Reality TV
I bring home another man. Grief sits on the couch, watching reality tv. I say I like to leave it on while I’m gone. Something nice to come home to. The man sits on my couch. Grief stands and folds its arms, shaking its head at me. I brush by Grief, placing myself next to my date. Grief tilts his photo to me and wails in a high-pitched tone that rattles my brain. Grief whispers accusations into my ear. I close my eyes, and the man laughs loudly, throwing an arm around me, drowning out the reality tv.
Grief Throws Me the Ball
Grief throws me the ball. I throw it back. Lunch lingers of broccoli pasta. Grief throws the ball. It bounces in my lap. I throw it back. The ball is green. Tennis. Something we did when he was alive, well, maybe just a couple times. Neither of us any good at it. I laugh. Grief freezes, the ball held upright in its shapeless hand. It throws me the ball, which lands against my leg. Grief waits. I sit there. Grief motions for me to throw the ball. I let the ball remain there, done playing.
