JL

The autumn I turn six, Mom gives me a book about a dying tree shedding leaves. It’s not a birthday present, she says. I know.

Time’s different now: slow, yet squandered. Suddenly I’m on stage for my Christmas concert. I find her below, oxygen tank drifting into the aisle. She’s wearing her wig for the occasion. She always cries when she puts it on.

My class slaughters “Ode to Joy,” and she lifts her ghostly hands in applause. Then they fall haltingly to her lap, and it’s like they’re falling forever—like everything in this world was created to do.

—

This story received an Honorable Mention in NYC Midnight 100-word Microfiction Final Round 2026.

Constraints: Action: applauding / Word: below