The Almost Death of Ansley Frederick

Ansley

Each tombstone in St. Lucia's Cemetery seems to audibly call me by name. My ankle nearly rolls on the root of a tree and I stumble around, trying to find one particular grave. The sun is dancing slightly above the horizon, readying itself to go to sleep. There is a slight chill lingering in the air like a haze. It is October 29th. She's been gone for two months. The last time I spoke to her, the last time I heard her laugh, August humidity had clung to my hair and made it frizz and look like I hadn't washed it in weeks. She was still an angel, a stark contrast to the backdrop of the outdated and understaffed children's hospital on the north side of town she was confined to. We spent hours sitting at a little, crayon-scribble covered plastic table, coloring images of princesses and fairies. I'm still convinced that one day I might go home and see her reading a novel way above her age level in the windowseat again.

I reach her grave. It is new and fresh and sharp. It shines in the dim sunlight that is filtering through the willow tree that watches over her plot. My legs fail me and are suddenly paralyzed. I fall to the ground and winch in pain as my knees meet shards of rock. My sun dress, which is not nearly heavy enough for the autumn weather, is now covered in stains of clay dirt and grass. The gashes on my knees sting but I let the dirt and earth seep into them. My eyes burn and I suck air in and out, ripping cries of primal grief out of my lungs. Amongst the twilight of the cemetery, my mind unravels. I am punching the dirt. My knuckles are splitting open from hitting rock. I try to scream but my vocal chords are coated with lead. I am rendered mute. I fumble around in my purse for a moment, and suddenly all the contents spill out. Pills, my mind screams. Do what you came here to do. I wash them down with half a bottle of water.