SILENT WHITE by Karen Crawford
Abuela blows in like a blizzard and wags a finger. I hope you’re not wearing a veil, she says while scowling at a picture of you and me kissing. I thin my lips and nod, not because the veil is white; I know the color of sin is bone. I nod because something borrowed hangs floor to ceiling in my closet. All cathedral and lace. A shrine. A reminder not to lose myself in someone else’s dream.
Mama stomps the snow from her boots. Says I should have stayed with Mr. Clean and washed you out of my system. I shake my head, not because Mr. Clean was weak on grime or checked all of Mama’s empty boxes. I shake my head because I’m shivering in the deceitful heat of the storm you and I created.
It wasn’t supposed to snow today. I crack open a window to usher out the noise. My heart flutters out instead. It beats repentant for the broken; your ex who bathes in tears, mine who drowns in Sea Breezes. Then it plummets into a blanket of silent white. Whispers. It’s time.
A spray of snow christens my hair. Wildflowers caress my heart. I’m walking on air when I see you, all rock n roll mane hugging your tuxedoed shoulders. Your smile as brilliant as the promise on my finger. You take my hand, and I try not to sink as the tracks behind us disappear.
Karen Crawford grew up in the vibrant neighborhood of East Harlem in New York City. She currently lives in the City of Angels where she exorcises demons one word at a time. She tweets @KarenCrawford_