The day my mother died, she took me to a lake. Wind pawed at my cardigan; big breaths of something even bigger. I asked her if it was God.
She smiled tightly, tucked me into her arms.
We came to the lake.
It was a vast, silver mirror, upturned, forgotten, tarnished at the corners by mud. Beauty swirled in the water; smokey & soft. Rivers spilled at from all sides; bordering it was our city, & further south, a small town. Mist rose up from geysers -- shimmering steam chimneys. All so cold.
We sat at the end of a pier, one of the many grey fingers dipped into the lake. She wrapped her coat ‘round me. Wind pawed at it, but her body sheltered me.
It was the warmest thing I ever wore.
Her hair was bunched up, to ponytail shortness.
“Darling, you know I love you?”
“No matter where I am?”
“Of course mama.”
She lit a cigarette. Let the ash, the cinder, grate in her mouth. Little black diamonds, ‘twixt her white teeth. The glowing tip overshadowed the afternoon sun.
She hugged me tight, fingers that seemed dipped in ice. She got up, high heels making the pier croak. Rivers stopped running; the lake dried up, silver reduced to silt.
I did not turn around.
The wind kissed the back of my neck.
I never saw her again.
My short story writing skills are getting worse :(