location: veteran’s memorial park.
mood: merry.go.round.
music: hunting irish.

she is five years old.
her blond ringlets frame her face, bobbing with her laughter.
there is a definite innocence to her character.
animated by the simplest things.
the bare feet wander.
the hem of her sundress skims the grass as she crouches to pluck a dandelion.
semi-conscious that it’s called a weed.
but unconcerned with such a concept.
it is such a happy yellow.

she shrieked with laughter the first time she rode it.
in spite of her initial timidity.
she loved the spinning.
round and round.
making faces at her friends and family.
tagging hands.
continuous smiles.

“faster, faster!”, she pleaded.
but none of them were strong enough to make it go too quickly.
only so fast as to make them squeal with childish delight.
(every now and then a mom or dad would give it a shove.
but always conscious of the smallest ones.)


the bigger they got the stronger they became.
faster and faster they spun.
clutching the rails and bracing their feet.
thrilling at the speed.

it was a pure enjoyment of a simple pleasure.

and then it changed.
she started losing focus.
everything became a blur.
faces unrecognizable.
all that was familiar blurred to colorless, shapeless blobs.
her stomach felt strange.
queasy. almost nauseous at the sight.

“make it stop.”, she thought, silently.
too intent on her balance to speak.

now and again a hand was visible from the blur…
but any attempt at grasping it resulted in a harsh slap of flesh.
and fingers slipping quickly out of reach then gone.
amidst the whirl, she realizes it slows ever so slightly now and then.
unable to stop it, she manages to half fall, half stumble from it gracelessly.
but dizzy now, she’s lost her balance and collapses into a heap in the dirt.
the hands are gone.
too far to reach.

she stays there for a moment.
clutching the ground.
slowly, slowly her stomach settles.
and the spinning slows.
the blur begins to form familiar shapes and colors, which comforts her.

there is a hole in her jeans.
likely a scar will follow there.
she stands, finally.
brushing the dirt from her palms and cheek.


there are many scars.

sitting on a bench by the lake.
her hands are freezing, but the sun is warm on her back.
she loosens her long brown mane into a wave across her shoulder.
and stares across the water.
the gulls, screaming. at her silence.

she is twenty six years old.
ten months.
five days.

howtospelljo writes here.