Parkinson's

“I had a dream last night,” he said, placing a hand on a nearby chair. Nodding, I shook my head absently, spreading butter on my toast. The chair quivered. After a moment, my dad cleared his throat. “I dreamt of your wedding.” Dropping my knife, I immediately sat down. Smiling. I poked his belly where it was extra soft. Was it nice? A beautiful day? Was I marrying Drew? “Yes,” he said, pausing to scratch his head. “At least, I think so. I don’t know where you were. But I, I was put in a room with all these young guys. Twenty-somethings. And…” I brushed a crumb from my shirt. Waiting. His thoughts warming, slowly connecting. And? “And everyone had a sign on their back that said what they were.” His thumb jerked over his shoulder. “And I was Parkinson’s.”









Elisa Jay recently moved to L.A. from Chicago, where she received a degree in English Literature from University of Illinois at Chicago. The move to the mountains and ocean has revived her great love of words. She now writes while drinking copious amounts of tea. She has appeared in Hippocampus Magazine and 100 Word Story, and can be found in upcoming issues of Word Riot and Zest Literary. Follow her on Instagram @e_letters.