RIVERS IN YOUR MOUTH
I once knew a girl - Elizabeth - and she had auburn hair and
insipid eyes. She and I would play by the river, but one day she
did not show. I waited - for seven weeks - until one day she
washed up, with mottled skin and hair that smelt of
freshwater.
I was invited to the funeral; the only child there. I did not
want to go. I did not want to see Elizabeth dead; I did not want
to acknowledge a dead Elizabeth at all. But still I went, and
kept my head low, as townspeople came forth to pray for a little
girl they had never met. I ignored her open casket, and did not
once glance at her falsely tanned face. When they lowered her
into the ground, I promptly vomited into the wilting grass.
It has been twelve weeks, and Elizabeth is still in the ground. I
visit her everyday, and tuck baby's breath into the grass
(although how I wish I could tuck it into her hair).
I once knew a girl, and she will never grow old, or grey. My
mother tells me this is life.
