Teresa

I recall hearing about her death through her brother.

“She died three months ago,” he said.

There was no fanfare.  No chorus of voices.  No lullaby.  She couldn’t have yet turned twenty and her life had already ended.

I hadn’t seen her in a few years.  We drifted apart once I found out how she didn’t feel about me.  I always wished her the best in my heart.

“She died in her sleep,” he said.

We met at the arcade.  Friend of a friend of a friend…  you get the idea.  I drove six young men and a young lady to the corner market in my car that sat four.  She straddled the stick, intentionally I believe, making it impossible not to get personal during the errand.

“They call me The Spick,” she said.  I never did.

The one part of her that I was unable to possess was what finally took her away.

“It just stopped beating,” he said.