TRACES SPRING 2016 | Page 52

Harry with the name of a boy, Harry whose long hair waves in the wind. Harry who loudly proclaims not to call her Harriet, whose brown eyes glow like sunshine through a glass of fine whiskey when her happiness is best. Harry who upturns her nose at the girls who scorn, blinking blindly as she fumbles for her glasses, signing with dignity to the teacher whose words are lost

on her ears. Harry who plays with dirt, grinning with glee as the other girls shy away, who high­fives her only friend as he joins her in the mud.

Harry who loves her mother so dear, who lets her pamper her to her heart’s content, Harry afraid of showing her her broken nails and dirty knees, Harry who desperately tries to stitch the hem back onto her dress, who sobs at her mother’s weary face. Harry who drinks fromcracked mugs and eats from paper plates, Harry who smiles at her mother’s gifts that she

sacrificed from her own jewelry box, who shines the grimy stones to glimmering diamonds.

Harry who smiles past the stares, who looks beyond the mangled face in the mirror, dressed in dirty, torn, flowery dresses, playing with the necklace around her neck. Harry with the curly black hair, who feeds the ravens with a smile on her face, laughing and giggling and enjoying her tiny little life as she chases the friendly strays through the dirty streets. Harry who

smiles through the pain, but sobs into her pillow at night. Harry is the girl with the boy name, who didn’t wake up to play in the mud.

Harry

By Julianne

BEene