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or purple or green. The only color in the cemetery comes
from the crimson leaves that fall from gray trees.
The leaves are the same color as my red blanket that I keep
draped over my arm as I follow Mama to the farthest end of
the cemetery. When Mama stops, she takes the precious blan-
ket from my arms.
Mama kneels in front of the headstone. In bold letters it says,
Molly Christina Henry, June 3rd, 2000-October 31st, 2005. A
sweet soul gone too soon.
I can’t find the right words to say as Mama drapes the crim-
son red blanket over the cold headstone. The lovingly-made
cloth envelopes the weary rock in warmth. Scrawny trees
sway in the howling wind. Crimson leaves flutter helplessly on
the grass. My throat closes when I try to plea for help.
My body fades like a smothering candle that has reached the
end of its wick. An October breeze carries my alabaster ashes
into oblivion. Nothing is left behind except for two little foot-
prints in the dirt.
Mama visits the next sad stone, the one that says Anna Grace
Henry, October 4th, 2005-October 31st, 2010.
Jara Armstrong is a junior
majoring in English Education
at Bluefield College. She wrote
this short story for the Terrifying
Tales contest in October. Her
hobbies include writing, reading,
watching Netflix, playing with
her dogs, and eating chicken.
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