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untitled

Posted on October 29, 2015 by thirdstoryies

Erins Balloons

I often feel like I see her, like there is some sign that she’s there, that she’s okay, that she’s happy. I’m not sure why I see that so often in the sky – in the vivid colors of the sunset, in the sunbeams that break through the clouds, in that full moon as it was rising last night through the large windows of my class, and then later as I watched it through my windshield on the drive home. Maybe I’m always looking now, and that’s why I see them. Maybe I see them because I want to know that she’s there.

Other times I’m reminded that she’s not here. This is one of those days. I cannot go back in time and change anything to make the outcome different, to fix this hole in her family, in our family, where she just simply isn’t there.

3 thoughts on “untitled”

  1. Brooke says:
    October 29, 2015 at 7:20 pm

    I had tears today for all of your family today, and especially for her mom and dad and sister. Little girls with enormous smiles shouldn’t just disappear from family photos. It shouldn’t be possible. I know how much you all must miss her. xo
    Brooke recently posted…Family PhotosMy Profile

    Reply
  2. Allison D (appstatelady) says:
    October 30, 2015 at 10:29 am

    Brooke is completely right. It’s not fair, and it is so, so wrong. The world keeps spinning, but never as brightly. I know you’re holding your girls extra tight during this season… I’ll be praying that y’all find yourself pulled to moments of peace and joyful memories of her. She is such a gift.

    Reply
  3. Adah says:
    November 1, 2015 at 10:00 pm

    The Girl in the Yellow Raincoat

    waits on the sidewalk outside
    my window.The flower in her hair
    is wet. She stands very still

    her eyes focuses upward on some
    object I cannot see. She does not
    move,but she smiles. . . slightly.

    Perhaps she plays the cello
    and she is humming Bartok silently
    making the bow ripple with her tongue

    against her teeth. Or, maybe, she waits
    for a bus to take her to her lover.
    Or she has read a letter from Paris

    or Istanbul and she smells coffee
    and chestnuts steam roasted and she
    hears in the cobbled streets the cries

    of vendors under the aged curves
    of bridges. Perhaps she is just a girl
    standing in the rain by a stone bench

    in the early morning while the
    street shines. It is nothing-you argue.
    Then why do I weep, and why are there

    splinters in my palms, and why do I
    stand here, long, long, after she is
    gone?

    -Anthony S. Abbott

    Reply

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