Hyacinths

Hyacinths

By Maya Burkett

Their house is empty now, but I still see her playing on the front lawn, hair ablaze in the sunlight. The summer she moved in, we were inseparable. The golden afternoons we spent playing in the woods that connected our backyards were the time of my life. I didn’t know what love was back then, but I felt it.  We started school that fall. I hated it. I sat on the outskirts, always alone, watching. Everyone loved her. I shouldn’t blame them, but I did anyway. She ignored me at school, pretending she didn’t even know who I was. I’d slowly follow her home, walking alone, until the last of her friends left and I was allowed to be her friend again. Each time, I saw her less and less. We went camping with her family every summer. Our parents thought we were still friends. We never told them otherwise. And so, for a little while every summer, we got to be kids again. There was this cliff where we’d sit and talk for hours, the whole world beneath our feet. I was scared to death of heights, but I didn't care when I was with her. I loved her, the sun gold in her hair. I really loved her. Until she said his name. Hate and love can be hard to tell apart sometimes. I didn’t even know what had happened until I heard her scream, such a horrible sound. I had never run so fast in my life. They all said it was an accident, that she had just lost her balance in the wrong spot. I didn’t tell them otherwise. I could never get my hands clean, after that. I brought her hyacinths today. She would've liked them. It's all my fault.