Little Christmas
I.
The staircase flew by at a rapid pace; creaking with the weathered imprints of those I loved. Only mama knew I should not have been running for our last greeting—but it was far too late. She had seen what I had not, the confusion in her father's eyes, that blank stare of a mind ready for liftoff.
II.
I reached the top of the stairs with intensity, mouth open, one front tooth. She was still sleeping. I never had seen them sleeping, formally. Only the two beds neatly aligned, unwavering.
III.
Her skin was chalk white, I was still smiling. The loss of color wasn't it. It was the coldness of her skin—the touch, the feel of death.
IV.
On occasion in darkness, I call to her. When I have a fever and think she can actually hear. Only fragmented memories left, below the surface occasionally floating up—little pieces of shrapnel hitting me at the strangest of times.
V.
The smell, that dank aroma of loss and I think about the faces, because that’s all I could see. They took her body away at dusk. Neighbors peeked through darkened rooms. I was six, my pants were sopping. Cars came and went.
Days turned into
weeks
months
years.