There were no flowers in her neighbor’s garden. Just the cool, damp, sweet smelling dirt.

Behind the worn-down shed, buried under forgotten shovels and watering cans, stood a stone angel. Too hideous to be a lawn decoration, but too sad, full of too much yearning to be alone. It seemed that if you looked into its eyes for too long, the sky would break open, pulling the both of you, falling, falling up.

Sometimes, she thought that would be nice.

She would sit, legs tangled with an unused garden hose, and hold the angel’s hand. Although she was old enough to speak, she never did. She simply stroked the stone with the very edge of her fingertips, a kind of delicacy only found when no one is watching.

She wanted to be an angel too.

She caked the mud over her own skin with utmost care, smearing it over her eyelids, into each crevice of her skin. Peeling off her dress, she smoothed and patted until she too was covered in the dark earth.

Then she took the angel’s hand, and waited for the sun to come out.