The Escape

There was a purpose, of course. I don’t know of anyone

who has been on a pilgrimage to have ‘some fun’. Don’t you see the

lines of a resolve still etched on her sallow skin? The promise

she made to me, that of returning soon to rechristen herself

Emma the day after and begin a new life. Straightening

the mangled curls of her hair, as she ironed the

wrinkles on her night suit. Her tongue rolled

in a hurried succession, stumbling over the words

‘Communion’ and ‘Crucifixion’ as she stumbled

over the guitar strings as a kid, but played

‘silent night’ to perfection yesterday while

 narrating the plans of a pilgrimage the very next

morning. She repeated the stumbled words

And they escaped her tongue like a soft song. Today,

I tried hard to save the holy water from trickling away

from between the bony fingers of my cupped hands, or

was it the hope of seeing my daughter return, that

escaped? Or the loose page of bible on her lap? Or

a blank sheet with the word Emma on it? Or the shrill cry that

pierced the house before the receiver went mute in static?

(First appeared in the Teenage Wasteland Review, Spring 2015 issue)

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