Premature

An attempt at micro-fiction.

Her face is a patchwork of love, loss, regret, and poverty. She speaks into the flip phone, her mouth stretched into a smile that spans generations. Her words pour forth like rays of sunlight slicing rain. "Yes, she was born two months early. I'm the proudest grandmother." Her daughter sits silently across the table, grinding a cigarette, leaves burning yellow under heel. Above, the park's canopy of trees remains motionless.