She thinks of her every time it rains like this, slow drops trailing like tears as she hums a tune.
A teen girl’s image shimmered — the petite bit of spunk with penny-bright hair and bronze freckles, smelling Heaven Scent, swinging her doll-like while Richard Harris crooned.
The teen became the woman, herding her own tiny children around a Thanksgiving table while explaining why her sister and brother-in-law were such assholes to their first-born.
Recollection limned the red-headed spitfire who’d said sotto voce, You weren’t the first baby but the second, disclosing the truth of grim wedding day faces in a washed-out black-and-white photo.
Rain evoked the truth-bearer, who loved the niece whose parents could not make themselves accept the replacement created after the shotgun.
He’s a good man, your father. He didn’t have to, but he did.
It wasn’t enough to be good, bruises proved. Better was needed, but never attained.
But this secret kept; she never knew.
Before her ginger mop faded, or her tongue’s edge dulled, cancer snuffed the light-bearer.
Before her teen-aunt's favorite song - released the year she graduated and married - slipped from memory.
MacArthur’s Park is melting in the dark...
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 13
Photo prompt: origin unknown