Writing Not-Wednesday: Comfort

Hey all, I meant to post this yesterday, but because of my weird need to get good grades on final exams it's going up today. Happy Not-Wednesday!


I like alliteration, and I like writing. In honor of both, every Wednesday I will post a new prompt and respond to it in 500 words or less. Post yours in the comments!


Today's prompt has been taken from prompt literary magazine where I am currently the events manager.

^ sweet prompt logo! ^

Prompt of the day: Write a short story using the title, “Comfort.”


"Comfort"

            Allie made sweet tea every Saturday in a huge silver pot on the stove. The plumes of smoke would float around our house, sugar and lemon and heat getting into the cracks of the ceiling, and the books in the study. I would sit behind her at the kitchen table as she stirred the pot and chattered to me about her new boyfriend, or her new outfit, or the new movie that had just come out down on West 23^rd. She’d brush her long brown hair behind her ear and cock her head to the side, listening intently to my eight year old rambles as she stirred the big pot.
            When Allie left for college, the house did not seem empty so much as cold. The smells that had permeated our rooms grew old and stale, sickly sweet instead of the bright, tangy warmth we’d all grown accustomed to. Mom and I tried to replicate her recipe a few times right after she left, but never seemed to get it right. Our batches would turn out too sweet, or too bitter, and our pitchers of tea would sit for weeks, unconsumed in the fridge. Mom and I would sigh at our muddy brown creation and promise ourselves that next time Allie came home we’d make her teach us.

            But, for some reason that never happened. Whenever Allie came home there was too much talking and laughing and moving of bags, too much catching up and sleeping and questions to remember about the tea. Even when I did, the bags under her eyes and the weak smile she gave always convinced me against it.

            “College is too hard,” she would say, laughing and shaking her head, “Sometimes I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

            Mom and I would laugh, and dad would punch her in the arm, believing nothing could get the best our Allie. Allie could cook a soufflé her first try, and tie a bow so neat you’d think a machine had made it. Allie got A’s in high school and ran cross-country. Allie was the best of us, and nothing could beat her.

            When Allie dropped out to get married, Mom didn’t talk to her for a month. She’d hang up the phone so loud you could hear it reverberating through the whole house, and delete emails without reading them. I’d call her from under the covers, the door to my room shut tight, and my hand cupped over the receiver. She’d tell me about the dress and the color scheme and the guest list and I’d feel like a grown up for a little while, listening to her secrets.

            At her wedding, Allie seemed so awake, so alive, that I was sure Mom would forgive her. I kept looking over, waiting to see her face break into a smile. Instead, she sat at the very back, a tall, sweaty glass of sweet tea, unconsumed in her hand.