Tolling
Flash fiction by Martha Lane 

Swaddled in a blizzard of flowers, I think about the last time I saw snow. The last time I calloused the palms of my hands on the thick ropes that hang between the bells. Immense and pendulous, the cathedral’s own perennial herbs. The last time I saw Freddie.

The breeze blows, wakes the meadow, makes it breathe.

Butterflies surround me, fill me.

         The tower peals, chiming the clouds into mist. I stroke circles over the stretched skin of my stomach and listen to the band of bell ringers, and the notes missing from the melody they are playing.