The Best Thing

Of course he was angry. He had every right to be, and it burned inside him like a lump of molten salt. His ribs sweltered.

The weeks passed, and it grew and grew and twisted around inside him until it was finally born, a squiggle of eyes and teeth that squirted out onto his mattress one pang-filled night. He wrapped it in damp sheets and held the glistening bundle to his chest and nursed it with venom and memories.

It was gray and looked something like an amorphous Weimaraner puppy. He took it in a stroller to the park to be cooed over. Hungry seagulls flew overhead. It took third place in the Beautiful Baby Contest. He bought it braces, snapped pictures when it was crowned homecoming king, gave it a convertible. He took out a loan and sent it to University so it could join the family business.

But then the rains came, and it melted away, and he cried and cried at its funeral because it was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Kelsie Hahn studies creative writing at the University of Houston where she enjoys rock climbing, dinosaurs, and writing in longhand. She works as the editor-in-chief at The Daily Cougar.