Menage Monday Week 37

Hands

“What the hell is that?”

“Jonathan, language!” Merilee’s mother hissed.

“So good to see our tuition money is going to something useful.”

Her father’s grumbling was something Merilee was used to. After four years of galleries and exhibits they’d attended, her older brother Sean was finally graduating.

She’d always loved Sean’s hands – so creative, so able to make life out of nothing with just a paintbrush or some clay.

“I think it’s about death. Or maybe life, too,” she said softly.

Merilee craned her seven-year-old neck, twisting her little body so she could see the whole sculpture. Her hands, covered in band-aids and marker – so unlike her mother’s ladylike ones – came together over her head, mimicking the giant silver arms stretching toward the clouds.t’s about death. Or maybe life, too,” she said softly.

“It’s like this phantom – you don’t know if this is sleep, if you’re just in a dream.” Merilee twirled around, her skirt fanning out on the breeze. “Like it’s saying life is bliss, if you reach for it.”

She stopped twirling, her smile broad, and turned to face her parents. Her mother’s perfect hands were already lighting a cigarette. Her father’s were stuffed in his pockets.

“Crap,” he muttered. “She’s going to be an artist, too.”

Judge  gave it an Honorable Mention, and said:

I picked this one for its humor, candid take on family dysfunction (I felt the story was relatable) and use of child-like imagination and wonder when looking at the world and family members

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