Page 49 - North Star Literary & Art Magazine

her heart stop.
In the pit of the lawn, she could see the man and woman holding the body of the child,
hands still clutched to her chest, as if she were trying to stop the bleeding in her heart.
“The murmur! That child has a murmur! Somebody call a doctor!” She cried, watching
the throngs of people still gathering tighter around the child. The rush she felt caused her to try to push in, so quickly that her knee gave out, and she stumbled onto the ground, grass in her face, sobbing like a baby.
It was like one of those dreams where she tried to scream, but her screams came out soundless, on and on, one after another.
It was too late.
Nobody was listening.
Even when they buried the child a week later.
All that time ago.
Now she was looking out her window, the dryer running with nothing in it, the tv
blaring static, three box fans blowing, the mixer spinning, and Fifi yapping outside the bedroom door.
She recalled a verse that the reverend was preaching about in mass all those Sundays ago, before she stopped going.
He quoted Isaiah, saying that “they that hope in the Lord will renew their strength, they will soar on eagles’ wings; they will run and not grow weary, walk and not grow faint.” But she still hadn’t the slightest clue what he was talking about.
She could say her prayers, on and on, one after another, but no eagle’s wings ever came to lift that child up, or to help her run when she was so weary that day, on her front porch. Nor did they stop her from going faint.
She could pray for peace, which was sparingly granted now. Even on the better days, she wished she could bring them back, maybe to have said something, maybe to have changed something, but at this point, she just resigned herself to living. There was nothing wrong with living, after all. It’s just what people do in this day and age, right?
NORTH STAR 47