Sawtelle Meadows

November 29, 2008

 

She died on Tuesday. They buried her that Friday, lying on her side, sprinkled with dandelions, chicory and sundrops, just as she had asked. It was only a week before, she said, “Mommy, when I am in my coffin, I want it to be like when I slept that one summer in the grass, out by Sawtelle Meadows, near Henry’s Lake.” The flowers were so fragrant and the mountain watched in the distance, still and high like God.  Her tiny titanium lungs rattled with every  exhale and seemed to crush under the weight of her inhale. “Shhh,” her mother said, stroking her delicate child’s hand, “you have a long way to go before you sleep with the flowers.”

 

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: