Flash in the Pan

A Quarterly Posting at Tiny Lights


by Rebecca Gaffron

Red Lipstick. Fire engine red. Not the color usually associated with grandmothers. Grumbly silence before her first smoke and cup of coffee. Then the curlers came out, along with her wit and apricot jelly on toast. Time for lipstick. Puckered outline on the napkin. On my cheek. Pall Malls smell like home. So do Bit O'Honeys and lebekuchen. Nights of droning talk radio and the feel of her, warm and safe. Chantilly and lavender in my nostrils. Wondrous driving adventures. And stories. That sexy laugh. Sweet brown eyes that saw deep. Gardens and quilts. Little children loved her. I loved her. Love her. Miss her. Red lipstick. Fire engine red. Not my color. But I put it on from time to time and pretend.

Rebecca Gaffron is fascinated by sea-green spaces, words, and men who behave like cats. She lives in the mountains of Central Pennsylvania but can be found at her virtual home:

Twenty-eighth Flash

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