2016Bluestone

Crimson Jara Armstrong Five years is a long time.

It may not seem that long to some people, but to me, it’s an eternity. My name is Anna Grace Henry, and for five long years I’ve felt like a stranger in my home. My parents walk around like zombies. Have they forgotten how to love? Sometimes it’s almost as if I don’t exist in their world anymore. They look at me with sad eyes. Sometimes they say my name, but they leave thoughts unspoken and they don’t seem to care. It wasn’t always like this. They used to laugh. But then Daddy started drinking and lost his job. Mama still works, but she always looks so tired, like she’s given up on everything. Sometimes they leave me home alone. The little brick house feels so much bigger when I’m alone at night. I don’t understand a lot of things. I don’t understand why they speak in hushed whispers, or why the house is so cold, or why Mama cries every time she sees my favorite blanket. Maybe it’s because Molly gave it to me, and she’s not with us anymore. She was my big sister, but she died when I was baby. Before Molly died, Mama and Daddy weren’t so sad all the time. But whenever Mama sees the hand-made crim- son blanket that Great-Grandma knit so many years ago, she breaks down in tears and takes it from me. Sometimes Mama visits Molly’s grave. Sometimes Daddy goes, but he usually doesn’t. This time, I go with her. Mama looks into the backseat and sighs when I shut the door of the old white sedan. She puts the key in, awakening the engine. The car groans and creaks as if it’s in its final days as she drives to the lonely cemetery. The only thing I notice about the cemetery is how sad and gray it is. Why are headstones always gray? They’re never blue 22