The cars creep by out front while Grandma’s meatball recipe burns in the kitchen, the high school kids on their way home from another day of it. I’m feeling a little broken, six years behind me. It’s Cinco de Mayo, my daughter’s birthday, and I’m trying to smile for her. Trying to be here in the moment. Trying to ignore everything I am juggling that has nothing to do with my daughter. Out the window, there’s a never ending supply of cars, the sun glinting off of their finish. My daughter has been jumping nonstop for the last hour, so excited. I push my energy towards her, back into the kitchen to try to resurrect these meatballs—the dish she requested for her birthday dinner. I smell the smoke. I bite my tongue, bite back everything that I want to say. I grab her hand, ask if she would rather eat out. Anywhere. Her choice of anywhere.
poetry has appeared in The New York Quarterly, Hazmat Review, Grasslimb, and
Rattle among others. His short fiction has been published in The Meadow,
Oyster Boy Review, KYSO Flash, and Microfiction Monday Magazine.
Russell currently lives in Wyoming with his wife, daughter, and two cats. In the past,
he has lived in Ohio and New York. He holds a BA in English from the University of
Wyoming and was the editor of their Owen Wister Review. He has held jobs in
vocations ranging from hotel maintenance to dive bar DJ to retail management.
