Hannah Bridges

The flame opens like a hand

On the day you took off, we watched
from a set of bleachers three
miles away. I wore your baseball cap
and a NASA shirt. Mom made
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
for us to eat once you were in space.
She fiddled with the corner
of one of the bags; I could hear it
crinkling in her purse.
The largest rocket, fat hot dog
of a thing, surged up and then shucked
itself away. All that was left was you,
hurtling from the earth
in a glinting toy.

And now I am on the couch,
Mom’s hands sealed around mine,
and you return as a hole
in the sky--as a crack in a tile,
we’ll later learn. We watch your spaceship
turn to spacedust, you return
as a flame opening
like a hand. Or really,
you return as dozens of TV pixels
in the shape of an orange blur,
and Mom isn’t saying anything,
she’s just staring at the TV, waiting
for the punchline, and all I can think of
is the day you taught me
to shuck corn: we sat on upturned buckets
in the driveway, your hands
hovering above mine like
parachutes, miming the sharp motion
of the shuck: snap and pull. I remember how
the strands of silk drifted away
from the tight nest of kernels.
They were luminous in the evening light;
I drew a picture of them and you,
and my teacher tacked it
on the blue bulletin board.

The sky looks too saturated
on the TV. The blue practically quivers.
Mom leans forward, gently places her hand
on the coffee table. There’s a heat mark
next to her palm. It’s from your mug
the morning you took off
and is in the shape of a crescent. Mom
has tried everything: mayonnaise,
baking soda, toothpaste,
steam. When she gave up, she said,
I guess he wanted us to have
a little reminder of him
until he comes back.
But the flame is a mouth, and you’re in it.
The sky is a bulletin board;
you are held there by little tacks.

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Hannah Bridges is a creative writing MFA candidate at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. A Charlotte native, her writing is informed by her role as the oldest of five closely-aged siblings who find their way into her work in both grief and gratitude. She currently lives in downtown Wilmington with her husband and two dogs, and her work has appeared in The Southeast Review.