It’s morning.  Karen makes her way to the kitchen.  The hallway seems long.  Everything seems farther now that she’s sick.  There is a loss of energy, which she cannot communicate.  Saying, she’s tired, is like a migraine sufferer saying they have a slight headache.  Karen’s feet shuffle.  Slippers rise and drag, rise and drag.  They make a thin scratching noise across the hardwood floors.  She’s reached the end of the hall, holds a wall for balance.  Her nightgown is loose over her shoulders.  It moves slightly with her slow, deep breathes.  Jim is gone already.  The shift starts at seven a.m. and they’d be underwater if it weren’t for his benefits.  He’s made coffee.  The smells bait Karen forward.  She misses Jim, suddenly.  Wishes he were there.  Wishes she were healthy.  That only gets you so far, she thinks.  Her hands rest on the counter, she reaches for a coffee mug in the cabinet and stops.  Outside the window, at the bird feeder, a chickadee has a seed in her mouth.  She’s suspended in a beat of wings, poised in mid-air.  Karen feels as though her own bones are hollow.  She watches the bird as it retreats into the branches of the ash, the feathers ruffling like a flag in the breeze.

[Inspired from the Three Minute Fiction contest on NPR, I randomly looked at photos on Flickr and wrote something short for this one – http://www.flickr.com/photos/jennifersphotography/4382215638/]