by Wren Diane Fitzgerald
Maribel tried to picture her parents’ graves. As a child, she had the notion that if you imagined something hard enough it was like actually doing the thing you’d imagined. She saw how the frosted grass sat as stiff as on the back of an old man’s neck. She saw the two slabs of carved stone erected from the ground. She uncupped her hands from around her tea mug and imagined holding barbed roses. She could feel their thorns in her skin, but from a mental distance, as though her hand had fallen asleep and all she could really feel was pressure….