Ugly Crying
Flash Fiction
The hard edge of the shell digs into Sally’s palm. Crouched amongst dandelions and nettles, she squeezes tighter and tighter. Blood drips into the soil. She’s trying not to cry. She’s trying not to make an ugly face.
If you pull a face and the wind changes your face will get stuck like that.
It is a broken piece of shell, pearly grey, shaped like a mitten. She found it on her honeymoon. When she picked it up it felt warm in her hand.
She gives into the ugly crying, Fuck the wind.
Joe comes looking for her, why are you crying? You never cry.
It’s the wind Joe, just the wind.
Joe’s dying. He refuses to go to hospice. He insists that she nurses him.
There will be blood and shit-covered sheets and endless hours she’ll spend spooning soup into his mouth. Cooling him with ice.
Often she’ll dip her hand into her pocket and feel the shell’s smooth inside, its bumpy crust and sharp edges. It will remind her ugly crying is okay even if the wind is blowing.
And somehow touching the shell, and the time she spends crouched amongst dandelions and nettles, will be enough to carry her through.
