Holly

Karen looks out the window, again. Nothing. A cat passes the fence, behind bushes. She presses her knees to her ribs. She’s boxing her heart in a slow box. Mom will be gone for some time. She turns to the blue-dark room — sees the vase-clusters. Peeks at the broken vase. Mom said: Dale wouldn’t want these. And it slipped. The lilies are alive, but the edges are dry. Not much longer, she thinks. Then she looks away.