The Messenger by Shannon St. Hilaire
how close they lived, how much they touched, how they were buried next to one another...
Recently Published
I no longer harangue every desk nurse at every hospital for a taxonomic breakdown of her bills. I don’t ask for the numbers of the Benadryl, the water cups, the abdominal touches done with gloved hands. I am the most American I’ve ever been—she costs what she costs and I eat it.
how close they lived, how much they touched, how they were buried next to one another...
The next scream is so close he jumps when he hears it, almost slipping on the muddied red dirt, soaked from the morning rains.
More than what she has for her own kid—one last glow stick, not yet cracked. All that light inside, just waiting.
I love her indignance over their choice of chain restaurant as much as over the cheating.