Microfiction #1: After your wife dies, you find her dreams
After your wife dies, you find her dreams in a box in the garage. You were looking for an Allen wrench. The silver tokens are the size of pennies with a tiny nick on each rim, an inscription glitch she never fixed. Imperfections, she told you, are sacred. The Company’s logo is stamped on the back.
You pick up a fistful, and they spill from your palm like water. They’re pristine, never replayed.
You’re filled, suddenly, with anger. You’d both agreed to sell every dream you had. How many more weeks of treatment would these have bought? How much longer would she have lived? You ache to watch them, one after another, to drown yourself in her unconsciousness.
Then you think of the way she cupped your jaw near the end and whispered, “The beautiful unknowing awaits.” Maybe you begin to understand.
There’s a cliff nearby where she liked to watch the sea. Its mysteries, she said, belong to no one.
You pour the box over the edge and let her secrets fall like rain.
I’m Jenny. I research and write about people and technology.