by Taylor Franson-Thiel
My father doesn’t know I can hear him when he tells
my tear-streaked mother, He died on the table. That’s why
it’s taking so long for them to come talk to us. And I
think of the photo of me and my brother resting
on my bookshelf. My tiny arms wrapped around his tiny body,
both sporting soccer jerseys. His smile, all wide cheeked
dimpled luster, all solar flare molars, eyes squeezed tight.
Oblivious to how, in a few years, a man in a white coat would
drill into those cheeks. Working to pull bark chips out without
nicking a nerve. Without paralyzing what used to be an
easy, generous grin. I didn’t know those sunny smiles
had been rationed. And here I am, about to be a starved sister.
I am thinking of his now sideways knee. How the doctor told us
tendons are stronger than bones at that age, so that when his knee
flew over the handlebars those skinny muscles ripped his patella
apart. You wait for the footsteps of the man who knows
if your brother is alive or not. Your father’s face in his palms.
Your mother’s absentminded hand along his back.
Your leg bounces up and down. You feel guilty looking
at your knee intact. Your fathers face, intact.
::
Taylor Franson-Thiel is a writer from Utah, now based in Fairfax, Virginia. She received her Master’s in creative writing from Utah State University and is pursuing an MFA at George Mason University. Her writing frequently centers on playing as a Division One basketball player, faith, her family the body, and mental health. Along with writing, she enjoys lifting heavy weights and reading fantastic books.
Image: Greg Rosenke
Image description: A row of green waiting room chairs.
Psaltery & Lyre 