My father showed up, pulling the car over. One summer afternoon three years ago, I’d finished up my dog-walking for the day and was on my way home. She’s confused, but she says, “That’s right. Some light bounces up from the snow and ice. Her face is shadowed because the sun is brightly shining down on her head. “If you assemble the wolf, tooth by tooth,” I tell her, “don’t blame others when it eats you.” I say the only thing that I will say for a very long time. I know that weakness and silence might save me. “Can you say something for me?”Īm I supposed to talk about how we were taken? We weren’t taken. The cop is now holding my wrist, taking my pulse. They were buried holding small tins, pearl necklaces within. Here are some more: A body is buried beneath the garden wickets.Ī body, roped to stone, is rocking with the lake silt. I don’t believe in the truth, but truths. The truth of what happened to us - and what we did. I tried to hush the past so it no longer existed, so we could be new and whole.Īnd I don’t say what I know she’ll want. I’ve always known someone would come for us. Sirens are spinning out, whining through air. Her chapped lips are whispering, “It’s okay. She wears a knit winter hat, dark blue with a police insignia. She’s a black woman in her thirties, her eyes wet and shining from the cold wind.
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