Anna

Still not a hundred words or less, but WHO CARES.


 

Anna

I could see her little profile in back seat of the Lincoln. I waved to get her attention. She waved cheerfully back.

I pulled my nose up at her. She smashed her face up against the glass.

I exhaled on the cracked apartment window, creating a patch of fog. In it I traced a heart. I pointed at me, pointed at it, pointed at her. I love you.

She exhaled on her glass. Started scrawling with her too-thin fingers, but it was backwards, misspelt. Impossible for me to read.

The light turned green and she moved forward. Toward a different, better life. Toward a childhood she deserved.

Now that she was gone, I allowed myself to cry. I wonder if she did the same.

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9 comments

  • Heartfelt and beautiful, and I cried too(I always do). https://ivors20.wordpress.com/2018/08/02/im-back/

    Liked by 1 person

  • I really liked this one but as an overly logical person, I feel like I missed the meaning entirely. šŸ˜€

    Liked by 1 person

    • She’s too poor to feed her kid so she’s sending her away to live with rich relatives. Being mother and daughter, they’re both dealing with it in the same way.

      Like

  • An interesting “capture” of an intrinsically poignant event. Thanks for sharing it.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you so much Paul! (Also my name is Sarah but you can call me Hell if you prefer, haha)

      Liked by 1 person

      • Dear Sarah the Hellish One,

        I love the name “Sarah”, the sound of it, so I think I’ll call you that now that you’ve kindly given me permission.

        Years ago, when I was in my early 40s, I had a beautiful young friend named Sarah. I ended up writing a poem to her that began, “She’s a woman in the grace of sixteen summers / With skirts flowing in the morning sun” and then went on to mention some trivial facts that were nevertheless important to her.

        How the poem came about makes a curious story.

        One day we were sitting side by side in a booth when she started talking about all the men my age she loved to flirt with. Not only were they more fun than the boys her own age, she said, but she learned so much from them that both improved her flirting skills, and helped her mature as a person.

        At some point, she turns to me, “Why do you never flirt with me, Paul? Am I just ugly, or are you being a jerk about it? I need to know.”

        Well that cracked both of us up. So I went home that night, and composed my poem as a redemptive offering to her. šŸ˜€

        The poem is too private to be understood by most people, but you can find it on my blog under “alleged poems”, and if you like it, Sarah, I will tell you what the images mean.

        Liked by 1 person

  • Ah, the obligatory flirting! Always an ego boost! I’ll have to read it.
    There are a lot of Sarahs out there, and maybe I’m biased, but they seem to be a great bunch. šŸ˜‰

    Liked by 1 person

  • Well, they sure do have a pretty name! You don’t get much better than the sounds in “Sarah”.

    Liked by 1 person

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