Miss Belinda

Skating a little across the wet driveway in front of the funeral home, Miss Belinda lived a couple past seasons all over. Identifying her best friend's body before cremation, Miss Belinda saw a child again standing with her against a brick wall for a photo -- two little girls. One eyelid had cracked and Miss Belinda saw a clear eyeball as clear as glass as clear as shifting water that collected in a cake bowl depression in a big rock by the creek. They checked each other carefully for ticks from the hairy long grasses. In the embalming room, Miss Belinda saw Miss Sarah's hand -- it was bruised and Miss Belinda knew all about that bruise, from a door knob weeks ago. And Miss Sarah told her how clumsy. And she really was clumsy with no sense of direction. It's a shame about memories sometimes. Sometimes the visual ones take over sitting on the porch swing, take over rooting in the dirt making little towns, take over a voice as scratchy as wool, and take over the shock at this ordinary death for which Miss Belinda was well-prepared. That ordinary death and that shock could and did remove Miss Sarah and reduce Belinda to feeling like just another old lady in a flowered dress.

Copyright Louise Robertson