Ghosting / Tyler Murphy

Wednesday morning,

Jaxx Parsons

Sitting in my well worn office chair, she stares at her half-empty room and what’s left of her bed. A few old blankets left on the end. The pillows they couldn’t take with them left to collect dust until she comes back for the holidays. They fiddle with Garlic, a white goat their dad bought them when they were eight. His legs shriveled from the years of make-believe and pretend adventures. A yellow eye lost to one of the cats. Though they would eventually sew the eye up they never stopped feeling guilty about it. 

Tomorrow she’ll be at college, 186 miles away from home. Away from the safe confides of their bed and her weighted blankets. Where they drank their mom’s hot chocolate. Where they collected bugs like the ones in her mother’s office. Where they found Nymo and Oscar and where their dad taught them how to crochet. They twist Garlic’s ear and their bottom lip quivered. Fighting back tears. 

• Category: Photography, Prose