A Different Story to Tell.

A Story by Stormy Weather

Her face always sagged as if it was being dragged down to the floor by invisible fingers, and maybe they were the same fingers that always draped her in obnoxiously flowery dresses, that shrieked sunshine, in painfully loud yelps. She seemed so old and gray, despite her youth. But, I suppose she wasn’t any age, really.

She always reminded me of a twig in the forest, just lying in waiting for something to step on her. That was her entire purpose for survival, just to be broken. That was too easy of a wish; there were thousands of other twigs uselessly strewn around her.

Her hair was long but wispy like the clouds in the sky. She always looked as if she was on the verge of crumbling into soft ashes that would be swept away into the swirling wind. And to be honest, I don’t feel anything would be much different if she did. I don’t mean that in a spiteful, sinister way. It’s like when you see a leaf on the ground, intact and lonesome. Its dear fate wouldn’t be too harmfully different if the wind swept it away, because it’s already done. Done with its life on the tree; done living.

Unlike the leaf, however, she was done so quickly. Not as if she had fallen off her tree in the natural progression of life, but as if someone picked her off her tree in the prime of her growth, to leave her to rot on the ground. And that’s exactly what she was doing; rotting away, waiting for her wind to carry her off.

No one really noticed this about her, though. They only seemed to notice the pattern of her dress, or the leather of her shoes. But I always heard the cracking of her laughter, as it got closer and closer to breaking. I even noticed the color of her eyes when they weren’t foggy and faded; green. She used to sit on her front porch every day, for hours. I was never quite sure why. Whenever she was out there, the clouds would puff and swell, and the sun would sleep in them for a while. She would sit and sit, without interruption. No voices calling for her, no faces lined with worry…just sullen peacefulness.

Then one day, when the wind blew, it took pieces of her with it. It was greedy and it broke her off, piece by piece. It looked so agonizing through my painted eyes, but her face was so serene. The gray girl slowly did what she did best; faded away without any notice or concern. She became part of the puffy clouds that loomed overhead, and cradled the sun with purpose. I saw as her porch became quieter and grayer over time. It looked worn, even though it wasn’t being used. Some days I felt that the wind on my face was warmer. During storms the lightening would crack and if it was coming closer and closer to breaking. On cool mornings, the skies were faded with clouds, and the earth was foggy with dew- making it hard to see only but a bit of green peeking through. Twigs in the forest became broken, and leaves were blown away. But, always one twig remained as did one leaf, anxiously waiting for their journey’s to begin.