Her eyes are dull, dry wood in a desert white face. “I’m not myself,” she says in a faded voice, staring out at the sea.
“No,” I say, helpless. “I can see that.”
She lifts her cold hand and I see it tremble. She huddles within her coat, a matchstick girl, too thin and wasted.
“I need to be free,” she says. “I need to be in the mountains.”
“I know,” I say. “Be patient.”
Her red woollen hat is bright, livid against her dark hair, a smear of scarlet, a slash of blood. Jocularity in sorrow, a hidden laugh.
Thursday, 25 August 2011
On the Prom
I'm somewhat beset by memories this week, recollections of moment's shared with a dear friend I lost last year and thoughts about her experiences. It's a difficult week for all the people who loved her. The 100 words piece below is a verbal snapshot of one of an hour we spent together in her last year.