Summer’s End
It is a humid August morning and I can hear the discordance of the pealing wind chimes that hang outside our back door. The cicadas, roasting in the morning heat, add crackling hisses to the unconventional composition. I listen keenly as I slip my cool cotton socks over my bare feet. My white slippers are patiently waiting for me besides the door; I slip into them, slide the door open and descend the nearby staircase.
My mother is in the doorway at the back of the house, near the chimes. She has a slightly upturned mouth painted the color of a red camellia. Her shiny black hair is neatly combed, the long strands untangled and moving gently in the muggy breeze that is coming in from outside.
Mother smiles down at me with her unchanging mirthful expression. Her neck is at an angle, causing her beautiful head to hang off-kilter. Her empty black eyes do not blink. Her toes are slightly off of the ground, grotesquely joyful with their petal pink polish. The cord that she is strung on lets out a groan, barely perceptible over the song of the cicadas. As tears burn my eyes, the wind chimes play a disjointed dirge.