Still Missing

by Chevy Stevens

I looked him over. His khakis were perfectly pressed, and I liked that. Fluffing my clothes in the dryer is my version of ironing.

Interesting that hardly anyone asks how I feel now, not that I’d tell them. I just wonder why nobody cares much about the after—just about the story. Guess they figure it stops there. I wish.

I hated that I was even considering the opinion of a freak. But if somebody is telling you the sky is green, even though you know it’s blue, and they act like the sky is green and they keep saying it’s green day in, day out, like they really believe it, eventually you could start wondering if maybe you’re nuts for thinking it’s blue.

Little by little, day by day, the sky became green.

And the thing is, Mom isn’t all bad, but that’s the problem. It would be easier if I could just hate her, because it’s the rare times when she’s loving that make the other times so much harder.