by Karen Crawford
When you were little. A sunny day at the beach. Your hooded eyes, letting my unfamiliar rays soak in. Later, a teen, mesmerized by a ghostlike raccoon standing still in the yard. Your eyes two distant stars blanketed by midnight fog. Watching it, watching you. A low voicemail at Christmas. Then a higher place. Your friends tucking offerings inside your coffin. The why’s. The what ifs. I often wish you could hear the song our father wrote for you. He still can’t sing it without crying. I’m humming it now. I saw a raccoon today and knew it was you.
Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee whose work has appeared in Cheap Pop, Maudlin House, Reflex Fiction, 100 Word Story, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter @KarenCrawford.
Emerge Literary Journal 