Of Gentle Birth
Of Gentle Birth
A Flash Fiction Piece by Claire Hansen
What do you do when you’re forced to make room for someone who never made room for you? When do you do when it’s your turn to decide between rent and food, survival and survival?
Well first, you get real mad, because these new cobbled sidewalks made your street a sunset town, and the corner store that you used to buy groceries at put up sign that said FOR RENT. Then a week later, there’s a new sign in the window for a new vintage shop that charges fifty dollars more than it should for dresses, and will still always make its rent on time, unlike you. Then you realize you can’t do anything about the way the white couple across the street looks at you when they’re out walking their border-collies.
So you get real sad, and your head feels empty and too full all at once. Now what kind of contradiction is that? Some days, you can’t stop crying. Other days, you wonder if heaven has a place for you, and if Jesus will try to push you out when someone holier, cleaner than you wants to make a home there. But when you aren’t allowed depression, you have to wait, and hope you wait a real long time.
Long enough that the construction of the Whole Foods down the street stops out of kindness, and your loud neighbors come back from whatever trail of tears they left on. Long enough that you don’t feel like the last of your kind, and the vultures leave you alone and separate themselves from you, ignoring your potential, like they’ve done for all these years.