Purple Butterflies and Raindrops on Roses

Purple Butterflies and Raindrops on Roses Open my eyes. See the window covered in tiny beads of wet. Hear the raindrops on roses that line the building. That isn't right. Why can I hear the soft beating of rain? Smell sulfur and smoke and ozone? I turn my head. Soft, cotton leggings of pink and white, hug chubby, adolescent knees tight. A long tailed pale pink shirt with white ruffles on the neck line, hem, and arms, Picturing Sponge Bob Square pants and his BFF Patrick Star. Tiny white sandals with pink plastic flowers. Purple butterfly clips hanging onto blonde pigtails on each side of her head. Kindergarten lunch hour. It looks as if the butterflies are struggling to lift her up by her blonde curls to fly her far away. Bright sky blue eyes…eye? Eye. Empty orb but for the black blood, framed by stark white bone instead of long, flirting lashes. Like a candle crying tears of wax,dripping red, Veiling pale cheeks and freckles. I turn my head. Raindrops now streaming down the window, each one rushing toward something…frantic, panic. Wash it away! Wash it away! Wash it away! Soft, cotton leggings of pink and white, hug chubby, adolescent knees… that will never again kneel by a bedside to pray. Red polka dots on white sandals, one covered in congealing Salisbury steak gravy and spilled milk. If only her purple butterflies had flown her away from school today… taken her to the fairies to sing and play. A high pitched tone, raindrops now slowly, plop…plop…or is that blood dripping? The ceasing rain and silence merge. The stillness after gun fire is the loudest noise ever heard.