We stood on the back porch drinking homemade lemonade from mason jars and listening to the cicadas out in the fields. The sky was still as pink as it used to be on nights like these. You checked the watch I had re-strapped for your last birthday.
“Eighteen hours now.”
“She’ll be alright.”
“You can’t know that.”
“She managed to push your football-sized head out of her. Come on, I want to show you something.”
You took me inside to the nursery where all the old childhood toys I thought had been thrown away were spread across the floor.
Ronan Fenton is an Irish writer living in London. He writes fiction, non-fiction, poetry, drama, and art criticism. His work has been published in Poetry Ireland Review, Trampset, Mercurius, Neuro Logical, and The Citron Review, amongst others. Twitter: @Ronanfenton36.
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