somewhere,
in a very different world
a child sits alone
her life is sharp clarity
she is six years too young
she ponders over life
and death
while she dreams of butterflies
.............................................................
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There was a morning when they were there. A bitterly cold morning, with the wind screaming at the windows. There was no snow, but there was rain and hailstones along with it. Shutters closed. Doors closed. The fire warm within its hearth. Not a soul outside had stirred, but the three inside were far from sleep. The mother, looking down with something haunted on her face. The father, following suite. The child was new, unwelcome, unwanted. So there it lay bawling piteously, a newborn in search of its mère. There was much debate amongst the two parents, neither more baffled than the other, as to what should be done.

They spoke of trees and trains and waste-bins.

They spoke of hospitals and neighbors and feral things.

There were so many ways to make the child dissapear. To pretend as if it had never existed. But then there was silence. The child had exhausted itself, lying still, unconscious, wrapped in bloodied towels and tablecloth. The pair approached slowly, terrified of this thing come out of the woman. Terrified of their little one. The man touched it, very gently, as if the skin might split and the thing burst into nothing at all. Already the child's skin was pale and a bit cold. He cradled it and sat beside the fire, glancing at his mate for guidence though she had none to offer. She was must too tired to even stand for much longer, sinking to the floor much like a ragdoll from a child's hand.
The father closed his eyes and murmured prayers to the god he'd forgotten until that day. He lay the infant against the mother and lay down himself, never sleeping but simply staring.
There was nothing wrong with child
But much was out of place with mother and father...


She wakes, not for the first time, alone. Chin against her knees and arms wrapped around folded legs. She is cold, like the weather outside, not so dissimilar from that wet rainy morning when she'd been born. Tired eyes stare out from beneath the blanket, her heart hurts but she doesn't know why.
She doesn't know that her mother and father have just lost their lives.
An avalanche toppled their car,
it rolled downhill.
She closes her eyes and tries to catch the substance of her dream. It had been a strange one, she had been running...not as a girl but as something else. It had felt good, and whenever she stopped running there was always something warm and safe to sit beside. Unlike her mother and father, both of whom seemed to dislike her very much. The traces fade away and she gets up, her eyes half-closed, wandering through her little room.
It is a closet, without windows, the carpet is her bed, the end of the blanket her pillow
She has no possession, except for twelve bracelets, jingling and jangling
stones and shells and bells and marbles and little silver bears
bracelets of every kind
in every color
she hangs them on the walls, over the clothing racks, her wrists, her ankles, everywhere
A rap-tap-tap on the door. She doesn't speak, cannot speak. Instead she listens, patiently, with her night gown brushing over her feet. There is no answer, as usual, so she twists the door handle and slips outside, eyes wide and frightened at empty space.