Still

It’s strange how easy it is to remember the smallest details.

The smell the grass bled under the blades of the mower. The woodpecker. The black and brown butterflies. The rusty screech of the swing, rocking no one but the wind.

A pink lace shoe smaller than mine rolled to a stop on a brake track as black as the bottomless darkness.

Mom screamed.

My shadow stretched itself on the sidewalk, crooked and wrung over the chest. Somewhere between the before and the after, the red balloon had flown from my hand.

Behind me, the house reached towards Heaven with pleading hands.