So, I read today you are dead.

Are dead, and were dead, and was dead. Ah, the beauties of the English language. Each statement reflects for the audience who I am… well, to hell with them.

How long are we dead, Missy? A moment, a flash of time that encompasses exquisite pain and then–what? Do we remain in a paroxysm of memory or do we go blank after a sudden release?  And really, dear friend, what is worse?

Your obituary was brief; no viewing, no opportunity to submit to your favorite charity–the abortion clinic, the woman’s homeless shelter, or possibly the city’s club for user men. They put you in your grave and since weather permits a “brief” family ceremony at graveside, where the dirt hides their mess now. At last, my friend, your very own address.

And what is the funeral ceremony about? The children who don’t know you because you were unfit or broke or worse, deceived into believing you were too much of all the above?  What of your son, reared by your parents, the same parents who smiled at our girl scout uniforms and told us both we were communists? What would, will, shall, it be about?

And your “companions,” will they be there? Yeah, I know dear and so do you. If they slept with you, then they loved you, right? Tell me, did you ever get over that notion? You know, being able to brush your teeth, look in the mirror and say, ‘I am more than an easy lay’? Or did it ever occur to you sex, no matter how intense, is not love? Did they ever give you the time to figure out the mystery which was you?

Maybe. I don’t know.

Missy, I always thought you pretty; your smoke-blue eyes and blemish less ivory skin, even young as we were, I thought you pretty. It was always you who ran from the boys on the playground — they show you their crotch yelling, “sharpen my pencil, Missy, sharpen it for me.” On the playground, God help the early developed girl.

Later we watched the boys, who stood up straight for the blond prom queen’s father. While they fawned over future wives, they made sure you knew their intent; making you blush and me shudder. They snickered in their Christian youth groups and pondered about time with you. We fooled ourselves into thinking their gold crosses meant something to them. Raised right by proud fathers who knew best, the young beautiful sons made sure condoms were always ready in their pockets and roomy back seats. For justice’s sake, I wish them daughters with large breasts and low self-esteems.

Missy, I wait for the dead to tap on my windowpane, and for someone else to tell me their name. Today it was yours and in a swirl of a green girl scout uniform, hobo Halloween costumes and trampled prom dresses your blank, smoke-blue eyes, look back at me, no more questions, just perhaps surprise.