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Brown eyes gently shut and pink petal lips pulled into the hint of a smile, she’s the picture of peace. Sandy, silken hair frames her freckle-dotted face. I want to reach out, touch her, but I’m afraid she’ll break. So I leave my hands at my sides, trace over her features with my eyes.
I want to memorize every nuance, remember every detail. The particularly dark freckle under her right eye. How her bottom lip is a little bigger than the top. You can’t see them, but she has dimples, one in each cheek. When she smiles this goofy grin, wide enough to split her face, you can see the front tooth she chipped when she ran into a wall and lost the other when she was ten. The way her face scrunches when she laughs or the way her eyebrows move when she’s thinking is completely cartoon-ish. Her aversion to dresses, how far she’s gone get out of any her mother has tried to put her in, is a bit extreme (and entirely too entertaining.)
She looks different in a dress, like the princess her mom always wanted her to be. I remember that she left for our junior prom in a periwinkle dress, wild hair tamed into neat curls and held with bobby pins. She came home in a hoodie she’d “borrowed” from me over a vested light blue dress shirt and black slacks, fedora askew and chucks in her hand. Her mother had been furious.
But this one looks like something she would wear.
“You look good… A badass even in a dress.” It’s a whisper. I hope she hears it.
“It’s time to go, Sam.” The hand lightly squeezing my shoulder, pulling me away from her side, should be comforting, but it’s only heavy.
It’s cold and it feels like it’s raining.
I take a step back, then another, and then another till I’m out the door.
“See ya later, Andy…”
But I still hear the coffin close.
I want to memorize every nuance, remember every detail. The particularly dark freckle under her right eye. How her bottom lip is a little bigger than the top. You can’t see them, but she has dimples, one in each cheek. When she smiles this goofy grin, wide enough to split her face, you can see the front tooth she chipped when she ran into a wall and lost the other when she was ten. The way her face scrunches when she laughs or the way her eyebrows move when she’s thinking is completely cartoon-ish. Her aversion to dresses, how far she’s gone get out of any her mother has tried to put her in, is a bit extreme (and entirely too entertaining.)
She looks different in a dress, like the princess her mom always wanted her to be. I remember that she left for our junior prom in a periwinkle dress, wild hair tamed into neat curls and held with bobby pins. She came home in a hoodie she’d “borrowed” from me over a vested light blue dress shirt and black slacks, fedora askew and chucks in her hand. Her mother had been furious.
But this one looks like something she would wear.
“You look good… A badass even in a dress.” It’s a whisper. I hope she hears it.
“It’s time to go, Sam.” The hand lightly squeezing my shoulder, pulling me away from her side, should be comforting, but it’s only heavy.
It’s cold and it feels like it’s raining.
I take a step back, then another, and then another till I’m out the door.
“See ya later, Andy…”
But I still hear the coffin close.
© 2013 - 2024 fox-ninja97
Comments12
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They say simplicity works best. It's certainly the case with this one; true, the short length might leave some readers wanting to know about Sam and Andy - the reason for Sam's fondness towards Andy; the circumstances of Andy's death; whom the hand on Sam's shoulder belong to, etc - but as a piece created to simple invoke feelings, this length works just fine. And it damn well works great at making me feel the feels to, I should add. Great job (even though this was like a year ago, but IDGAF haha)!