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.