We Used to Be Travellers
Photography by George Priniotakis
“I open my eyes and this is how I see the world.”
All the Details You Hope to Someday Forget
Non-fiction by Lisa Thornton
CW: Childhood Trauma/Loss
That she showed up wearing a coat in July. The one that looked like what a spy would wear. The London Fog knee length.
Her fingernails back when they moved her plastic Candyland piece ahead one two three spaces.
Her walking carefully around the indentations in the carpet where a bookshelf, a desk, a couch had been.
The number of footsteps between her bedroom and yours.
Her leaning against the counter, coat on, belt tight. Sun shining through the window, landing in squares on the white linoleum floor.
The aerosol sting of Bactine on a scraped knee.
The words she chose. I got married. The one you met, remember? The justice of the peace did it. You can stay here with your father, I guess.
The wooden chair on the back of your legs. The plastic Kool-Aid cup in your right hand, ice cubes softly popping.
The screen door banging behind her as she disappeared around the corner of the fence that was supposed to hide the dumpsters for all the apartments.
Her voice lingering in the kitchen, floating in front of the cabinets clear and unwavering like when you all sang Christmas carols. Like when she taught you how to recite Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.
How many rocks fit in your mouth.
That she showed up wearing a coat in July. The one that looked like what a spy would wear. The London Fog knee length.
Her fingernails back when they moved her plastic Candyland piece ahead one two three spaces.
Her walking carefully around the indentations in the carpet where a bookshelf, a desk, a couch had been.
The number of footsteps between her bedroom and yours.
Her leaning against the counter, coat on, belt tight. Sun shining through the window, landing in squares on the white linoleum floor.
The aerosol sting of Bactine on a scraped knee.
The words she chose. I got married. The one you met, remember? The justice of the peace did it. You can stay here with your father, I guess.
The wooden chair on the back of your legs. The plastic Kool-Aid cup in your right hand, ice cubes softly popping.
The screen door banging behind her as she disappeared around the corner of the fence that was supposed to hide the dumpsters for all the apartments.
Her voice lingering in the kitchen, floating in front of the cabinets clear and unwavering like when you all sang Christmas carols. Like when she taught you how to recite Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.
How many rocks fit in your mouth.
Lisa Thornton is a writer and nurse. She has work in SmokeLong Quarterly, Hippocampus Magazine, Pithead Chapel, and other magazines. She has been shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award and Bridport Flash Fiction Prize. She lives in Illinois and can be found on Twitter/X: @thorntonforreal.
