Dirty grey rain all day.

I found the bones of Papa Z's last gash girl under the purple fig tree at the end of the orchard.

She must have been very small, very young, I thought, as I carefully laid out the last traces of her life.

I heard her laughing as the sweet pink juices from the late summer figs ran down her chin, making her fingers sticky.

I saw her darting through Papa Z's fields and vineyards, chasing her younger brother who loved her too much and won't love anyone ever again.

I imagined her lean bronze arms, struggling to escape Papa Z's insistent hold one last time.



I resist sadness.

Imagine her free now.

A beautiful ghost girl rather than another broken gash.