In high school, I knew a girl who
kept her eyes fixed on her shoelaces
whenever she walked.
She was a fragile, curious, awkward thing,
who chewed on pens, wore black or neon colors,
but never short sleeves.
Rumor was she kept razors and foreign pencils
in her burlap bag.

Her name was Ashly. She sat behind me during math.
She asked to borrow my notes one-day,
I asked how she got her scars.
Hopped over a fence, landed in barbwire... she began.
Elaborate stories were her loophole,
but I wasn't buying.

During second quarter, she missed third period
some random Wednesday and didn t surface
for nearly a week.
Concerned, and intrigued, I inquired;
discovering she stayed in a trailer with
an abusive alcoholic for a mom,
who was missing two front teeth.
(She resembled a heroine junkie;
cursed worse than Judas,
and smoked like a stack.)

The place was quaint. The furniture seemed ancient,
and the smell resembled wet cats.
Finally, I stumbled across Ashly sprawled
beneath the kitchen table, lost in a freakish buzz...
It took close to twenty minutes to
notice I was actually there.

I thought you were a dream, she slurred. What day is it?
Thursday, I replied; sipping my
watered-down iced tea. You missed gym.

The following weekend, it poured. During lunch,
Ashly complained she had to place down buckets
to catch the rain dripping from their leaky roof,
then launched into a detailed editorial about
her cracked out, psycho mom, and how she was so far gone,
she neither noticed the drench, nor budged from her
perch in the over-stuffed chair.

After finals, Ashly suddenly quit showing up, again.
Her spot was painfully vacant,
a hollow space, which caused a fearful knot
in my stomach every time I looked.
It was mocking me, I decided, but I didn t have the guts
to rescue her a second time.

The student body was caught off guard
when the Vice Principle announced the details of her accident...
But out of 2500, I was the only one who really cared...
The funeral was set for the upcoming Saturday.

At the wake, Ashly resembled an ashen, fallen angel.
Her body limp, her skin blotchy; veins bruised
from the lingering over-dose.

One by one, a handful paid their respects,
then went to carry out the remainder of their day.
The ceremony was brief, and when it concluded,
the procession of friends and immediate family drove
to the burial site.

Before the casket was lowered, I tossed
her favorite rainbow-patterned ribbon
into the grave.

What a waste, I over-heard an elderly lady remark.
Another child silenced by their pain. Shaking her head,
she clutched a string of rosaries inside wrinkled hands.
After she prayed, I continued to watch until she was grouped
with the rest of the blue-haired busybodies
to gossip during monday night bingo.

Silently, I glanced back toward Ashly's plot.
Struck with grief, I turned, closed my eyes, and sighed.

What a waste, I whispered.
What a waste, indeed.

03/31/2002

Posted on 03/31/2002
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe