He tapped on my door, dressed in light blue. His hands were empty. All of this I found to be particularly distressing.
How often does a grave digger’s son go around in anything but black without a shovel or spade to wield?
I rapped three times on the millionare’s door, knowing none other than his daughter were there to answer. I wore my best shirt and took care to wash the dirt from my hands.
She looks at me as if she’s noticed my face beneath the grime. It must be the first time because her eyes are wide.
He stares back at me. I want to tell him something, something my father would approve of, but I don’t feel very much like my Father’s daughter in front of the grave digger’s boy. I feel like a girl, standing in front of a strange boy. I feel like he can see everything in my eyes.
I can see interest and fear in the daughter’s eyes, and my heart jumps up and wants me to tell her, to confess just how long I’ve loved her. I tell it no and pull a bit of candy I saved up for from my pocket. Life teaches us to enjoy what pleasures we can, while our flesh is pink and our eyes clear.
Her lips are pink. I watch the candy slip past them as they smile at me. Blood stains them. No. It is only the color of the sweet.
I take his gift and wonder what has stopped me from seeing the boy who talked to headstones. He stares at my lips a while. I wonder what he is thinking. I wonder if I could love him. My head tells me no. My heart stutters quietly, speaking a different story. I wonder if he would speak to my headstone…
To be continued…
© Megan M. Caldwell
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Megan M. Caldwell
Adventures in the Land of Words 