By Stella A. Brown
Liz looked at her friend.
Why would she do this?
She shifted her gaze to the pill bottle on the nightstand. So small. But she had taken so many.
Liz reached out to touch the cold cheek. All trace of color having long since fled.
* * *
The sky was gray. It seemed that even the sun could not stand the sight of the coffin.
The gravestone was simple. A name and a small carving of a firefly.
The parents of the girl stood off to the side. Near the edge of the crowd. On a sudden impulse Liz walked over to join them.
* * *
The day after the funeral Liz went to the house. The mother of her dead friend had asked her to come. Today they were going to go through the possessions of one who would never again enter the room she had inhabited for all fourteen years of her life.
In a box on the top shelf of the closet Liz found a disorganized stack of papers. She read the first page and sank to her knees.
* * *
Poetry. Page upon page of poetry.
She was a poet. All that beauty, all those words. And we never knew. And now she’s gone.
Liz gathered the sheets and pressed them to her heart. The tears ran down her cheeks. She let them. But she couldn’t just sit and let these pages, the words on them, and the girl who had written them, be forgotten.
* * *
The bell on the shop door jingled. A woman walked in. She went to a stand stand near the front door and picked up the book so prominently displayed on its shelves.
a collection of poems
written by June Smith
compiled by a friend
The woman sat down and opened the book. she read a few pages, then flipped to the author bio in the back. She let out a small gasp and her eyes clouded over as she blinked back tears. A few minutes later she left the shop, her purchase clutched to her chest. On her way home she stopped at a trash can and threw away the bottle of sleeping pills she had been carrying in her pocket.