Tidying up Loose Ends

Prose

Photo by israel palacio on Unsplash

I dug into Providence's clutch — pricking my finger, as she joked about some wives’ tale, slicing my hand open on her scissors as I attempted to pull them out. The familiar weight of the blades in my hands— lethal in the wrong ones.

Seventeen years to realize the only string left was a connection I didn’t need then or now. A string I’d kept as a reminder of a time come and gone — a…