I was getting ready for bed when my phone dinged with a message from my childhood friend, Shamhad. She had previously left two messages which I had not yet answered, so I knew I needed to respond to this one. Time differences had us playing phone tag, her in Africa, and I in the U.S. I called her back.
He stood in front of the youngest child’s room. His body shook nervously, seemingly full of adrenaline as his eyes dilated, deepening the shade of his green eyes. I was completely caught off guard when he blocked the door with his body to keep me from escaping.
The girl with the blue dress.
Everytime I close my eyes, I see the girl with the blue dress. Her image haunts me.
I see her sitting on a cement wall, looking over her shoulder at me. Her sun-bleached hair is lit by the falling sun. She looks familiar, but is shrouded in the blurriness of a distant memory.
I was running an errand when my attention was drawn to the familiar figure heading toward the underpass. I had seen this particular homeless man walking aimlessly through our small town many times and often wondered about his story.
The early morning sun shone behind the acacia tree – red, angry and covered in the orange hue of fire. The sun was here to witness an injustice it would cycle back to tell many years later.
Blue sky hovered above us as the hot wind delivered the scent of fresh herbs from nearby trees. I inhaled deeply, driving this memory to the core of my body. Birds took to the sky in anticipation of discarded human flesh.
One afternoon, I had been absorbed in my studies for an hour or two when a well dressed man carrying a briefcase walked into my study room. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, was over six feet tall, and had a beautiful physique which made me think he was a man who never stayed single for long.