Jenn Hall

F-I-N-E Fine (flash fiction)

I need to get this computer off me, she says. I can’t tell if I’m sick or depressed.

Depressed is sick, I tell her, but she says there’s a difference. She would know. Her mom, and her mom’s mom, and the moms before them, all swirled out into that inaccessible distance.

One killed herself.

One got committed and clothed in a buttermilk dress.

The rest toiled on amid children and husbands, saying everything’s F-I-N-E fine.

They repeat it like a mantra.

They wield it like a shield and a curse.

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