Mirage
My child’s hand pulls me toward the horizon, points. I pause and stare.
Tongue thick in my mouth, scraping against my teeth, I rasp out the word, “Water.” I long for the sheer wetness of it, cool against my body.
I catch Faith’s hand and try to run, pulled by the promise. My withered feet drag, casting up dust. Skin scaled with it, this relentless grit, crusting my ears, scratching my eyes.
I slow, drained. Faith’s eyes red like fire. Her eyes pleading, her voice a whisper, “Water?”
We crumple onto the sand. My gaze floats across the parched lake bed, the whole breadth of it, gone. Only the endless liquid shimmer of heat waves over a bleak and barren shore.
The final longing question in Faith’s eyes, the word thin and crumbling, “Water?”
Trembling, I pull her close, cheeks sunk in sand, “Mirage.”
About the author
Carol Kay MacKay has written for weekly journals and self-published a collection of poems, vignettes, and drawings entitled: "When the Wind Blows Through You Like a Scream." She has enjoyed writing and reading for seventy-six years, and is currently working on a science fiction novel, a young adult screenplay, and several short stories.