katiewest

Did I ever tell you about Emily? She had cancer. She died 4 months after I met her. I always wanted to tell her how pretty she was. I never did. But that's the way life is. All these things you should have done and all these things you could have done, but instead, you drink a cup of tea and think about doing it tomorrow. I always thought my life had too many men in it. We would smash glass bottles on the sidewalks when we were 10. Laugh when people walked through the pieces, grabbing our small bellies, pointing, doubled over. I was the little white girl and all my friends were little black boys. Emily was white, and a girl. She was 14 years old when she didn't die of cancer. She was pushed off a cliff and landed in a fire. She had told me she'd grow wings when she died, angel wings. So I pushed her, hoping to see it happen. I felt I needed a miracle, my mother had called me selfish again. On the way down I watched her flapping her arms frantically, anxious, I think, for a miracle too. When she landed I saw her melt like plastic, cave in and grow wings, with white feathers that were fire-proof and unmarked by the black smoke. So white. Emily flew up past my nose and smiled. I turned and faced all the small black boys whose faces had drained and eyes had widened.
"She had cancer. She was gonna die anyway. Now she's an angel, and my mother's gonna appreciate me.
What?"