The Pickled Egg

Family

The sisters stood by the pot in silence. The taller one stirred in slow, even movements, watching the puddle-grey soup with eyes that seemed too old for her face. Her sister was watching too, but her eyes had a barely discernible glimmer of life. Perhaps it was her future, or a hope that there was something else, but she knew without knowing that it would soon fade. The sisters hadn't spoken for weeks now. It was not through anger or displeasure, simply that there was nothing to say.

The taller one snagged a bone, and it bobbed to the surface, yellowed and smooth, poking through the greasy surface film. Every week they made their soup with daddy's bones, and every week there seemed to be a little less of him.

posted by Kenyon @ 9:51 am