Flash Fiction
“It was a memory. From sleepovers when I was just a young girl, on the pullout couch after a night of movies and popcorn.”
By: Abigail Dawn
Featured in: Issue 15, 2021
The last thing I remember is the final maple leaf, brown in colour, flapping in the wind, ready to fall to the ground in preparation for winter, but is too stubborn to let go. Every year this tree branch always has one leaf that is too committed to its role during the autumn that it isn’t quite ready for winter.
The cold snow. The rosy cheeks. The wind that makes our faces cry in pain. I used to always ask myself why I lived in a country where the wind made my face hurt, then I remember all the terrifying creatures that live where it’s warmer, and I don’t regret my decision.
But I wasn’t looking at the leaf. I didn’t even hear it. I was leaning against my bedroom window, with the cracked, white frames and the dirty antique glass that I could never get clean, no matter how hard I tried. The house was quiet. My partner Rosalie had gone to take the corgis for their evening walk, and I was too tired, so I stayed and watched the leaf hold on for dear life. I listened to the creaking of the old walls as the wind blew, and that’s what I remember, but that’s not where I was.
I was on a mattress that was incredibly uncomfortable. It’s hard and lumpy, and I can feel the springs pushing against my back; whoever’s bed this was will have aches and pains for the rest of their life.
I rolled over to a familiar smell, bacon, eggs, and cigarette smoke.
I started to open my eyes, and I saw a faint, yellowish light from under the hood vent of the old, green oven.
It was a memory. From sleepovers when I was just a young girl, on the pullout couch after a night of movies and popcorn.
I was at my grandmother’s house.
I slowly slipped out from under the covers; I looked down to see I was still wearing the clothes I had had on all day and made my way into the kitchen. I needed coffee.
“Oh, look who’s finally awake!”
I looked up to see not my grandmother but my brother.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him.
“Sit down. Have some breakfast,” he replied.
I took a blue ceramic mug from the middle of the table and pulled the French press over to where I was sitting. I pushed down on the handle and watched the coffee grounds fight their way to the bottom of the glass. I poured the dark roast into my mug, took my first sip, and watched Colin plate my eggs and bacon, missing him even while he was right in front of me.
“You haven’t visited me in my dreams in a long time.” I said it, not expecting an answer and definitely not expecting the response I got.
“It’s not your dream,” he said while he started to cut his toast into small pieces, so he could put a bit of each on his fork, toast, bacon, and egg, “the perfect breakfast bite,” he used to call it.
We sat in silence in what felt like an eternity.
I didn’t understand, whose dream was I in? How did I get here? Why was he here?
“I miss you, you know,” he finally said, looking up at me with his big brown eyes that always seemed to work on Mum and Dad, getting him off the hook for whatever mischievous thing he was up to.
“I miss you too,” I started, “I wish you hadn’t gotten in that car last year.” My eyes began to water; I didn’t cry much these days, not after the accident, not after losing the only person who got me, without explanation, without argument.
“It was my time. I knew my time was coming. I had the warning; I just didn’t know when,” he said. I looked at him in confusion. His lips curled in the corner of his mouth, revealing one dimple, “the evil dimple,” I used to call it.
He continued, “a few months before the car accident I had a series of dreams where I spent time with Aunt Clairice at our house. She made me breakfast, we talked, we went for walks.” He paused, took a deep breath, and dropped a bomb I wasn’t ready for without preparation.
“A month or so before the accident we had our last dream. She told me that she didn’t want me to be scared, that the time we had together was to prepare me, so I knew that I would be safe, but that I didn’t have much longer to live. She didn’t tell me how, she didn’t tell me when, but the time with her was the time I needed to get comfortable with the idea. To appreciate my life and the people in it, instead of always looking ahead for something better.” He took a sip of his coffee and watched me mull over the information overload.
“But why am I here? Will I be dying?” I looked at him; part of me was ready for the idea, so I could be with him again, my brother who I thought was taken from us too soon. But then I remembered my family, my farm, the beautiful life that I was just starting, and I wasn’t ready yet.
He shook his head. “Remember, this isn’t your dream.”
“Arden, we’re home! You’re never going to believe what Scout did on the walk. I’ll put some hot chocolate on.”
I smiled at the sound of Rosalie’s voice. The pitter-patter of the corgis coming inside after their walk in the light snow. I regretted not joining them, not appreciating our moments together.
“You better go,” Colin said, “you have hot chocolate and a story to hear.”
I looked at him, knowing I wasn’t going to get the answer but still needing to ask anyway.
“Colin, who’s dream am I in?”
I heard the flapping of the maple leaf against the glass of the window. I slowly opened my eyes and watched as the leaf finally detached itself from the home base and flew into the white of the snow. It was winter.