There was a slight iciness in her voice. I slid my arms off the table.
Natalie’s dad gave his wife an odd look. “Adding other flowers to your garden wouldn’t be a bad idea.” Then, he addressed the table. “And who can control rain?” he asked us, opening his arms as if giving up.
“Now that our last guest is here, it’s time to say grace,” Natalie’s mom said.
Everyone bowed their heads, but somehow, I felt uneasy. I shifted in my chair, scanning the people at the table before lowering my head.
Looking down at my hands, a thought suddenly pricked me. Not one person at the table was darker than a cup of medium-roast coffee with two teaspoons of sugar and a couple tablespoons of cream. My stomach grumbled. Not from hunger pains, but from a faint anger at myself for not realizing, maybe even ignoring, the reason for Natalie’s hesitancy. The prayer ended, we raised our heads, and hands gingerly passed around the bowls of steaming food.
– THE END –
Read more short stories by Jenelle Jack Pierre today!
About the Author: Jenelle Jack Pierre grew up in Maryland. A graduate of the University of Maryland, College Park and the MA in Writing Program at Johns Hopkins University, she writes young adult fiction and contemporary short stories.
A Mural of Hands Page 3