Ring Around The Rosie

A pocket full of posies,
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down.

We all fall down.

I saw ghosts of cars today. In the reflection of the bus windows. Car ghosts running head on and crashing into their originals. The car themselves come out unscathed. The car ghosts disappeared.

Did the cars know they were driving into their haunted selves? Did the car ghosts know they were driving into their demises?

Did they know?

Did they care?

Yuma took me to the orchestra room today, and played Imogen Heap's Speeding Cars on the piano. He sang too. I had looked at the lyrics once before but had not noticed them. This time, I realized it was talking about suicide.

Suicide. Such an easy word to say, such a hard word to swallow.

In my dreams—or are they nightmares?—I have been chased many times. I have been on the run many times, from presumed enemies, to win a race, or for the sake of running.

But I have never fallen. Not once. Falling dreams are the ones that haunt my daydreams.

I am suddenly in possession of objects I would deem too dangerous for me to hold. Too dangerous for someone who has such a strong morbid fascination with these objects. But I accepted them with as much grace as I could muster.

What will it be like?

Do I want to know?

My scarf obsession started in fifth grade. Or grade five, as I used to say, before someone pointed it out to me and I subconsciously changed the way I spoke.

My youngest cousin and I were on the streets, with my aunt. We had finished shopping for something, and I cannot remember what it was, but it must have been important because why else would we be out at night in one of the coldest winters I could remember?

My cousin spotted a hat she wanted. We went over, and I, in classic little sibling manner despite the fact I was an only child, decided I wanted a hat as well.

She bought one for herself and one for me. I, in turn, bought the matching scarves and rabbit hair gloves.

My aunt later asked me, “Why aren't you wearing your scarf?”

“It's too short,” I told her.

So she got me another scarf, a long chocolatey caramel vanilla ice cream scarf. And perhaps that was what went wrong. I should never have two frivolous items, because what else could I do with them but want more?

I still remember the Fairweather scarf.

The tube scarf.

And every scarf that caught my eye afterwards.

I gave Yuma the chocolatey caramel vanilla ice cream scarf. It is one of four scarves I still have. He looks nice in it, I think. And anyway, he should have something for his throat, because sore throats are awful, especially for a singing throat.

We shared our favorite songs before. And found out how different our musical tastes are.

I am a melancholy-lyrical-rhythm dependent girl. One who grasps onto the melody and threads it through the lyrics in a silk weave. I do not know how he likes to describe himself musically.

Perhaps not as I describe myself.

The other day I was walking down the street and the trees seemed like plastic toys. The sky was so low it bordered surreal. I remember the air as biting cold, as it always is in December. I had only one year of warm December, where the snow fell as light dustings and winter was just as rainy as it was snowy.

The houses were some laborious decoration. Not real.

I walk alone from the mailbox to my door. No one walks down that path with me, except for Yuma sometimes, and even he does not reach my door.

On that stretch of road, I can be anything. Anyone.

I can twirl the air and pretend I am holding onto Lillian. Slash slash jump. I pretend Prescott is there, and I am telling him off yet again. I even sing sometimes. I start off with songs I know and twist the lyrics to my liking. Then I change the tune.

Then I reach my door, and halt the show.

As I write, I wonder, will I ever be well known for my writing? If I will be, will they who read my other, more famous works look back on these simple thoughts and try to assign some deeper meaning to them? Will they think, “Now here is a real thoughtful piece, here it reflects some profound theme.”

Death. Life. And everything in between.

But perhaps there is no real reason for this piece. It is not a statement, nor is it a message. It is merely an expression, a method to consolidate musings.

It is, after all, what came to mind first. And as I am listening to Speeding Cars right now, and re-imagining the car ghosts yet again, I wonder if they are at peace. Ghosts freed of their curses, free to go wherever they want.