Thirst
Those who knew her commented how the color of her skin matched the dry Missouri dirt she walked upon. They worried when the drought came. They watched the dirt open and crack. You could pick up pieces and crumble it in your hands. Dirt powder, everyone called it. And then they noticed her skin, just as thirsty as the earth, took on the same appearance. She tried to explain, but her parched throat would not let her. She tried to cry, but her tear ducts had gone dry.
Those who remember say her skin ached for water. That kind of thirst can cause damage—can keep the crops from growing, the tourists from coming. That kind of thirst can kick up dust that covers everything: houses, fields, cars—a thin film just enough to coat the windows and change the look of any day.
Those who knew her could not say exactly when she disappeared. They could not explain how one moment she looked like dirt and the next moment she was the dirt. And it wasn’t long after her disappearance that the rains came. All those cracks blended together in the mud of it all.
That kind of thirst, those who knew her say, can make you do crazy things—can make you look for water in places you never thought you’d go.
(photo by Pam Unger)
Comments
Thanks, Rachel. I love it when people pick out specific lines that speak to them. Pam’s picture is fabulous. She was a student of mine at Goddard. We have recently reconnected on Facebook. I love that she sends me dirt :-)
Jan Jun 4, 06:44
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I like this one a lot, a lot, a lot. Especially “how one moment she looked like dirt and the next moment she was the dirt…” I like the pic with it, too.
Rachel Jun 3, 18:41