cornrows.

she's the one who runs in between church pews looking for god in the steam her breath makes, because you can't see him but he's there, okay? he's there. the one who everyone watches, silently clasping their hands in prayer for the living.

'but dad, life's a gift so why do we pray for the ones who are living?' and he answers, because sometimes presents aren't what you think they are.


-

in between the dance lessons and the acoustic guitar that cost three month's pocket money, there's naivety that hangs around her face. she doesn't see there's something wrong with his hands on her face on her back on her legs on her everywhere, holding holding holding her because it's warm outside but it's cold in here.

and all she wants is to show him the next sixteen counts of the dance she's learning because he won't be at the concert. but her little feet carry her someplace else as she spins and graces the lounge room with movement so when she's done and opens her eyes she sees he's gone.


-

during the rush of christmas in july she sees the car's gone from the driveway and a few lonely pieces of bread in the fridge. he doesn't come back until the day after. it's three forty seven in the morning and she fell asleep on the couch without a blanket on. the tv is turned up so loud, and all thirty by twenty inches of it is filled with dancing puppets. her face is purple and she's sucking her thumb.

she's five for god's sake, you'd think she'd have stopped that by now.


-

time was spent pretending she'd already eaten, wearing last year's winter jacket and handing in assignments written in five colours or so, because sharpeners were too expensive, they were.

on occasion when he left his wallet at home she'd sneak a five and scurry upstairs, pulling a shoebox out from under her bed. it was october and she had just over one thousand dollars. it got harder as time went by because the birthday cards became few; they forgot her as she faded.

'a little longer now, just a little longer,' she'd say, and fall asleep, slipping her thumb in her mouth at three forty seven every night.


-

the hourglass women came and went every night, and she covered her face with a pillow. one of the classier left their pearl neckle on the bedside table. she waited while he took a shower and snatched it up. she got three hundred dollars at the pawn shop and danced her way to the airport.

backpack filled to the lip with paints and pastels, ballet slippers and leotard and guitar slung loosely over her left shoulder, she skipped down the pavement. a life in bags, she stopped and the corner.

'what the hell.' she thought, and ran. she ran and ran and ran to the airport.


-

as it reached midnight, destination time, she habitually pulled the pillow over her head as another in-flight movie rolled its opening credits across the screen.

tight-smiled hostesses attended to her, buzzing like hummingbirds. one of them cornrow-braided her hair and she sat with the little ropes dangling over her shoulders.

she tugged on them one at a time, seeing which one would be the right one to unveil her prize like a bad carnival game.











it wasn't much, but it passed the time.