By Robert Loomis
Her hand grips mine and her torso bobs slightly with each step. Her face is down in concentration, scanning the uneven pavement for puddles, not caring that her new white dress brushes the wet ground.
She doesn’t notice the playground, empty this morning.
Or the cars pulling up.
Or the crying children.
I slow my pace, lightly squeezing her fingers.
Not checking the time.
Not checking my phone.
“Mommy, run!”
Her eyes meet mine, her mouth in an open smile.
I force a grin. She shrieks and races ahead, letting my hand go.
I think of my new work pants and shoes I’d bought to replace my pre-maternity clothes. I think of my 9 a.m. meeting, and of my red coffee mug, and hope no one’s taken it.
I run after her and grab her just in time, raising her into the air and to my chest. She giggles in excitement as I march past the puddle and into the building.
My phone vibrates in my purse.
A teacher is speaking, her voice muffled by the din of crying toddlers and shushing parents that ripples through the halls. I nod anyway.
The teacher lifts my daughter. Suspended, her eyes search for mine, her mouth open slightly.
But I just stare at the hem of her dress, until she’s gone.
Outside, the puddle has doubled in size. My eyes linger on the empty playground. I breathe, and step in. Mud-colored water covers my ankles, soaking my scarlet pant legs.
White bubbles swirl around my shoes.
My phone vibrates, and I let it ring.
* * *
Robert Loomis is from Massachusetts, but lives in Ankara, Turkey. His work has been published in Flash Frontier, Litbreak Magazine, and Panorama: The Journal of Travel, Place, and Nature.