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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
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