Yvette R. Murray

Issue 16

Flash Nonfiction

You, meticulous detail of mine, garner admiring looks; sit with me at the head of any table. You open doors for me like a Southern gentleman. Your power never ending. You put my fear in its place and lock it there. I feel particularly powerful when the creases in my pants are so sharp they cut the palms of my hands. Mountain ridges created by heat and spray starch on my blue linen slacks. That’s that casket sharp. That conquering-a-world-that don’t-want-you-sharp. I get this from my Mama. Although I, in sheer defiance, rebelled like the Russian citizenry in 1917. It was actually 1975 and that teen thing told me I didn’t need no creases in my pants to make it. I could raise my fist and do anything I wanted . . . Except plow through that wall in universities or bank offices trying to get mortgages if I looked liked yesterday’s newspaper left on a park bench. She insisted. And like all good rebellions mine came to an end or I came to my senses. Or I went back to my future. Generations have been wired in violence, tuned for this moment right here. She was one of the first to raise her fist by plowing through walls with creases and the magnificent intelligence, talent and wit that are in our genome. Who am I to argue with that?