The Snow Inside

by David Henson

Cans of green beans, corn, carrots, and more litter the kitchen floor. My father sits at the table looking out at the bird feeder. When I ask him how it happened, he says something about needing more sunflower seeds. The ceiling creaks, and white flakes fall. Inside, not out. Bits of ceiling plaster, not snow.

I tell Dad that he must know what this means. My sister is lucky she lives out of town. She’s been warning me this day was barreling toward us, but I’d been putting it off. 

My father points toward the window. “Cardinal.” It was my mom’s favorite bird. Older folks, I’d noticed, seem to anoint favorites for lots of things — birds, flowers, trees. Guess they harken back to pleasant memories. Might be different for me if I forever associate cardinals with today.

I study my dad’s hand. The hand that taught me to throw a curve, bait a hook. He seems shakier than usual. Is it because of what’s happened or what’s about to? 
I go out the kitchen door to the garage to check the damage again. The overhead door is open, but the maroon Impala, its bumper crumpled, has its nose to the wall. 

When I step back inside, the cardinal flies away. Frightened or has it eaten its fill? I hold out my hand. My turn to tremble. The keys jingle as Dad gives them to me.

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DAVID HENSON and his wife reside in Illinois, USA. His work has been nominated for multiple Pushcart prizes and has appeared in various publications, including Trash Cat Lit and Best Microfictions 2025. His X handle is @annalou8. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com

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