By Celia Coyne
The things my mother taught me are not practical. A love of poetry and an appreciation of the sky will not take you far.
I remember her weeping over unpaid bills. The numbers were a foreign language.
Then I remember her showing me how to pick up a bumble bee without hurting it so that it would not sting. The prickle of its legs on my open palm; the furry perfection of it.
There were things that only she could do. Like pill a cat – it would take the tablet from her hand.
Celia Coyne’s stories have appeared in various journals, including Takahe, Penduline Press, Flash Frontier, Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine, as well as several anthologies.