My Daughters Will be Vines
Kayla Cain
I’ve been working by the glow of the crackling fireplace, but the light of the sunrise through my large dining room windows guides me more and more. Now, I have a short moment of quiet, Sally and Demi finally both asleep at the same time.
I anchor my pinky and ring finger on the table to steady my trembling hand, a result of the lack of sleep, iced coffee, and antidepressants. Squeezing plastic tweezers, I press a tiny glue-dropped paper leaf against the green wire wrapped around the column of the miniature home’s porch. I let the leaf slide and settle into the glue, twisting into its preferred position, reminding myself it doesn’t matter which way it faces because nature isn't perfect – the less uniform the vine, the better job I’ll have done mimicking its calming chaos.
Vines are structured and strong climbing toward the sun, yet helpless the moment an animal breaks its tendrils. With time, it can regrow, though, as long as it has its roots.
I continue adding little leaves to the wire vine, my mind following trails of thought, only pausing when I see a calico cat strut across the lawn dragging a limp squirrel in her jaws. She meets two kittens under my SUV and drops the squirrel before them. Then she lays back by a tire and lets her kittens investigate, pounce, and pick at the carcass.
I dip another shaky leaf into glue.
I’m trying to establish deep roots for my girls right now while they’re young. Life will rip
at them, but as long as they can regrow and follow the sun, they can survive, maybe even blossom.
That’s a pretty idea. I should add some pink paper flowers with bead centers to this vine on the porch of my book nook house…
Before I can cut out one blossom, though, Sally toddles into the dining room with messy hair and sleepy eyes. I pull her onto my lap, and she rests her head against my chest. Her soft wispy curls smell like shampoo.
Looking out the window, I see the two kittens have had enough of the squirrel. Their heads nuzzle against their mama.
“What do you think of Mommy’s little house?” I ask Sally.
Her plump fingers play with the new leaves on the vine.
“Ohhhh,” she says, squirming against me and rubbing her eyes.
A leaf, the glue not yet dry, falls off the vine and airily twirls onto the table.
“Uh-oh!” Sally says, looking back at me with an O-shaped mouth.
“Oops!” I say with a smile. “Here, let me show you how to fix it.”
Kayla Cain
Kayla Cain teaches high school English and journalism in Central Texas. She has flash fiction published in Literally Stories, Four Tulips, and forthcoming in Blood+Honey and Little Old Lady Comedy. Her passion is inspiring young people to read and write through example.