“You know, mama, you might feel better if you went outside. Danny and I could take you before lunch.” Ellen fixed her gaze on the yarn, carefully pulling on a skein of yellow and tying it onto the green.
© Nadia Brown, 2016
short story
Isadora – 16
Only Ellen seemed unperturbed by the turn of events. She just kept knitting: knit, purl, knit, purl, knit, purl – like a metronome; each row a tidy symbol of Isadora’s defiance.
© Nadia Brown, 2016
Isadora – 15
“I’m a little hot.” Even she could hear the bitterness in her voice. It had woven itself around every tendril of hope – tightening, relentless, until all had dissolved into an acrid pool. She adored the summer, but she should have died by Spring. She knew it. They all knew it, although this had never been said aloud, of course. The hospice staff had begun to look worried as they changed her bed and checked her tubing in the mornings. They’d look at her dubiously, and not without a hint of accusation.
© Nadia Brown, 2016
Isadora – 13
I taught her that, Isadora thought bitterly. Swaths of sunlight stained the bed, and the air was thickening quickly.
© Nadia Brown, 2016
Isadora – 12
Reams of pastel peach and lime trailed from Ellen’s fingers into the bag below. The canvas bag shifted from time to time, the knitted ribbons settling uneasily inside it.
© Nadia Brown, 2016
Isadora – 11
She was knitting. Always knitting. The little wooden needles clicked softly against each other, rising and falling, quickening as she neared the end of a row.
© Nadia Brown, 2016
Isadora – 10
“Mama, you look tired.” Ellen offered amiably from across the room.
© Nadia Brown, 2016
