Baghdad Closer to Winter

Baghdad Closer to Winter
by Kyle Hemmings
Wheelchair-bound, he sat at the storm door, one-half of his former self intact. A seashell-like dent impressed above the ear. He watched the girls dodging snowballs, their legs wrapped in leotards, scarves swimming. Two girls tossed snowballs at the transparent glass. He threw an arm over his eyes. His mother spun. One girl apologized for the others, said they’re just stupid. Her lips made the shape of something blunt, yet able to pierce flesh. Later, the mother fed him small spoonfuls, said open your mouth. His arm remained a barricade. Open your mouth, she said. He made a sound. Shrill. Almost like a girl. Faraway.