Emma looked at her dill pickles and thought about how ironic it was that she, a girl named Emma, had a dilemma about which dill to eat. Emma was very observant of the phonetic world for a six year old.
Sometimes I see it in the distance. Not in focus. Small. Then bigger. Swirling colors, like static on a television. A tornado that overwhelms my vision. I know it, but I can no longer see it. My brain fills in the gaps.
I walked down the marbled steps. The wind swirled the leaves from tree to air to ground, again and again. I turned the corner on the end of the block. I heard the bells chime. A funeral. Goodbye to the soul. Goodbye to my belief.