• Anya

    In her childhood, she used to jump over puddles.

    The rainwater would splash, and often, a smatter of mud would appear on the red galoshes she wore. When she jumped over those puddles, she flew, as one flies high in the sky, without any inhibition, or fear; a feeling of vertigo that surpassed the eagles.

    What I wouldn't give for her salvation. How dearly I missed her hand in mine, when innocence had made me dear to her. With age, only tragedy interlocks our fingers.

    Now I sit helplessly by the side of the bed, as her boyfriend watches the monitor. Her heartbeat seemed to form a word: LIPS. He instinctively kissed her. Would she now awake from her coma? No change. He watched again. HEART it said. He kissed her soft breast. No change. Just before she flat-lined, her pulse read I LOVE YOU.

    Apathetic attendants rushed in to lift her prone form from the bed onto a stretcher. Her thin fingers wagged at me with diffidence; even in death, her limp arm wished to wave good bye. As they pushed her out the door, in tempo with my heavy heart, I met the nurse’s eyes. Like hers, and mine, they were of the deepest navy blue. Tears fell like raindrops in a storm, crashing to the floor, long owed to someone now gone. In her childhood, we used to jump over puddles.
    __________________

    Need I ask?

    She stormed up the front steps, and it was clear the day had not gone well. Without thought the boots came flying, bouncing off the far wall. A flutter of cloth and her coat fell to the ground. I tried to speak to her.

    No avail—she ignored me, proceeding straight upstairs. The door to her room slammed. I knew what would come next. The music started blaring. Yet I knew it was all just a ruse. All just a mask.

    Because should I go up the stairs, past that door, and looked upon the bed…it would be a girl, curled up on the bed, crying and screaming that would meet my eyes; one unable to find comfort in the world.

    But I won't. And she'll just drown in the music. Maybe I'm a murderer, but one day, someone will need to teach her to swim.

    How can you protect someone forever?

    ____________________

    It hurts so badly sometimes; it hurts so terribly, wretchedly bad sometimes, when I think she'd rather not live at all.

    She said Mother was heartless. She said I didn't understand her. She said there was no need for hugs, kisses, or comfort. Was all her anger directed at me?

    Past all the bone, blood, flesh, tissue, this, here, could have easily proved her wrong. My heart—how soft it is, like a little babe, cradled in my arms. My heart—it has always been there for you. Who was it that didn't want to love? But despite my love, never did I extend a helping hand; the smiles I offered, the kind words tossed, are all feeble replacements for action.

    I know that she was right. When she needed me the most, I was gone. I had been busy watching the world pass by; I had been waiting for someone to save her. Even in my hands, that babe has been broken into a million pieces. Now my days are spent collecting these scattered pieces, each shard remembrance of memories good and bad. You bury your parents in the graveyard, but your children in your heart.