I. I lift my eyelids. plipliplip. The rain invites me to play. Her cold fingers curl around the doorframe, "Come on, come sing again! Sing, just like you used to!" She burbles gleefully. "Come on, old friend. We used to be ballerinas, whirling and laughing. We used to be one one and the same." Her fingertips inch through my solid oak door. I frown and shove the door closed throw down the lock yank my curtains closed Closed to the scent of moss to the wail of the wind to the percussion of the weather. (I prefer the smell of coffee the sound of silence of security.) "I used to be a lot of things," I call. "But then I grew up."
II. She knocks at my door. Again. (memories are persistent.) Teasing me with her calm voice whispering lofty and cool. I sigh begrudgingly I follow sliding into my raincoat tugging up the hood drawing the string tight around my jaw. She dances in watery windchimes sluicing across the slick sidewalk, she pirouettes leaps beckons for me to follow. My galoshes are not as forgiving as toe shoes; I trip. I reach out my hand tentatively curiously feel a cold ***** of water slide down my index finger. Icy. Biting. I gasp and flick it off. The world is a box of watercolors but all smeared together in shades of earth. Shadow, cornflower, lilac, mud muddy colors I identify straight away. They bring a smudgy comfort a hesitant nostalgia. I feel a note catch in my throat like trapping a dragonfly in a glass jar. It flits violently to escape, but I dare not let it out. It is sunny under my umbrella.
III. Late late night midnight and a half (to be exact.) I hear her call frosting my windows with condensation. I etch into my foggy breath, feeling the panes hard against my pale skin. "Come." says her voice. "Listen--" I protest. "Live." urges her whisper. So I fling back the door let the coolness trickle down my head. Silver bullets sparkle in the moonlight I tilt my face towards the crystal beads, watch them pour across my face. I shake my flimsy nightgown sodden with tears never shed. I twirl, laughing across the yard. "Old friend, how I have missed you!" The rain calls to me. My tears melt with hers tumbling down my neck. My words burst forth, a crescendoing horn swelling across the rooftops resounding to the deepest roots of the trees. "I don't want to grow up."