The Reaping Daisy

The Creek

Somewhere in the valley flows a small creek
We were once best friends, sisters even
She whispered her secrets to me under the September sun, as cicadas sung their summer melody
I showed her my scrapes and scabs from climbing trees
I showed her the scratches on my arms from carrying my family's hen around the house with me
I show her the bruises I get from crashing my bike down the hill at the park
I was a wild thing then
Blonde hair knotted and cheeks hot to the touch
Mud squishing in my toes and a toothy grin stretching across my face
I told her stories in the evening
Silly made up stories I wrote down at night with a flashlight between my teeth
Or the ones I heard from the library's weekly story time
But I also told her my story
I told her how quiet it got at night in the absence of my brother's breathing machines
I told her how I waited for my mother to tuck me in, and how cold I felt when she never did
I told her how much I hated angel food cake, and my birthdays where I was forced to eat it anyways
I told her everything, and she listened
She never interrupted
Eventually the creek, the greatest confidante of my youth
Dried up
I try not to feel guilty, but I think my secrets drained the magic from her gentle waves
So when people ask me
"What happened to our little girl"
I want to tell them
"Go ask the creak"