Fireworks crack, pop-pop, and fizzle over this beach town
then, no more.
The screen door groans as I enter my son’s apartment. I
turn on the fan to cut the stench of whiskey and stale
piss. Orange plastic pill bottles lead me to his bedroom.
I open the door, letting in light from the hallway. The
light casts shadows between his ribs. He is belly up on
the floral print mattress choking on vomit. I sit on the
mattress, resting his head on my lap. I run my hand over
his face, wiping his lips.
He has been dying for a long time.
Zachary C. Bush is a writer of poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and magazine features. He lives in South Georgia with his two cats: Luna and Tic-Tac. His most recent work can be seen in edificeWRECKED, 5th Story Review, Eloquent Stories, and Non-Euclidean Cafe.