stolen light

We puffed up our cheeks until they turned red, like Sunnie's hair, and we stayed that way, holding wishes in our mouths. Breathing through our noses but pretending not to until we were past Madison and Lemon, until the cemetery was no longer in sight, until it was safe to be alive again. We laughed—two sisters who had outsmarted death.

          Then Death whispered, “Foolish, foolish girls.” 

          Our house is packed with condolences. They pop like bubbles when anyone is near. “I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry.” Strangers’ apologies trail one after another after another, bursting. “It’s so sad.” “It’s so sad.” “It’s so sad.” They speak the lines like they are rehearsing them and my chest aches. 

          Someone says, “I can’t imagine,” and my mother touches the woman in a spot just above her elbow and says, “Don’t.” 

          Mrs. Marsh, who Sunnie always stopped to hug when she was running through the elementary wing, squeezes my shoulder and says, “Opal, you were a wonderful sister.” 

          I want to argue. I want to tell her that I wish it was me, and at the same time, I’m glad it wasn’t me and that I’m drowning! I’m drowning. I’m drowning, like her.

          Mrs. Marsh sees my thoughts.

          She parts my lips and pries them open like the shell of a clam, like a secret she refuses to let me keep. Her fingers are thin but strong. Her firm hold should hurt, but it doesn't, and the darkness trapped inside my chest spills out. 

          My pain sticks to the lamps and the chicken in the center of the table until the cloth puckers and the flowers wilt. It pops the pink floral button off of my aunt Susan’s lapel, muffles a woman who is helping in the kitchen’s laugh, picks up speed and steals the color from everyone’s lips.

          When the house has been blotted out, Mrs. Marsh leads me outside and whispers, “Some loss is too difficult to bear.” 

          It’s the early afternoon, bright and not quite ready to move onto night until my cry snuffs out its plans. It uproots a bicycle with a hanging wicker basket, a silver car, and a sign that says Drive Slowly. Children are crossing. It yanks a metal mailbox, 9004. It is not enough. It pries up an American flag attached to the pole, Miss. Kinney and her Pomeranian Two Bits, and three strangers trudging up our drive. It flings. It tosses. It squeezes until the world is one giant black hole. 

          Mrs. Marsh relaxes her grip on me but doesn’t pull away. The only remaining light is bouncing against my insides and I’m not quite ready to let it out.