I hear someone’s footsteps outside the door before the door opens. From the assault of disinfectant on my nose, I know it is Mrs. Abigail, our cleaner.
“What are you doing?” she asks. Something metallic moans on the floor as she drags it.
“Visiting my family,” I whisper rudely, as if she doesn’t know today is the day my family visits or I visit them as the case may be.
She has to take a few steps before she sees them.
“Oh, I didn’t know,” she apologizes. “Good morning sir.”
My father waves his hand and says good morning in a silent voice. My mother sits under the big tree in the room, dressed in a gown. Her eyes are staring at me unblinking but full of love. My younger brother is holding her hand. I don’t know yet whether he should wear clothes or not. But he seems happy to be enjoying the evening breeze.
I wish my paradise was not in an eternal sunset.
“It is time for breakfast,” Mrs Abigail says.
Can’t she see that they brought food? This is supposed to be a picnic. And I want to enjoy this day. It is after all, the only time my family gathers to celebrate my birthday.
“His head is not on his neck and you have yourself three hands,” the cleaner sighs.
I don’t blame her. It is my fault. I have never seen my family before and I have never seen myself before. Neither can I see what I am painting.
My imagination falls apart. But I keep the cardboard on the bed to eat breakfast.
Then I realize that Mrs Abigail and the bed are gone too.
I live under the bridge with a senile woman.
——
Read – Girls Who Love Like There’s No Tomorrow – A Flash Fiction by Grace David Ojogbane, Nigeria
I am also guessing the crayon and book the narrator was drawing with are gone too.
Simply majestic.