The Arizona sun beats heat waves into the dusty dry dessert. It is still yet springtime but outside, the heat is excruciating. Through this heat, children still play, running barefoot through manicured grass while dirt cakes their fingernails mixing with the already present blood that comes from dry, cracking skin.

From behind a screen door a voice calls out, “Come inside now.”

A girl’s feet carry her body across hot flagstone, each sole making its own connection with concrete. She is young, lacking lines on her face. Her blond hair is buoyant. The young girl grasps the handle of the French door with her dirty, dainty fingers.
“Sit down now,” says that same authoritative voice.

Worry rises inside the girl and then turns to fear, bubbling its way up through her throat. “What’s wrong,” she asks.

“Your uncle is dead.”

First a crinkle, then a quiver, then a burst; tears spill over her eyelids and rush down her cheeks.
“Your aunt called,” the hulking man that is her father begins. “She told me. I told her I’d tell you.”

The young girl nods her head as a line forms between her brows. The child looks outside but the light coming from the window does not give her comfort, inside it is cold. Slowly, she stands, and then trudges across the room, her feet never parting with cold tile.

With deaths comes new understanding of life.

Her parents stare into the distance as if the right words to say will be painted on the living room walls. The only sound heard though is the pop, pop, pop of somebody cracking their knuckles.

Outside, children continue to frolic in the light but the girls locks herself in her room. She huddles in the shadows and looks out her window at the familiar brick wall that blocks her view.

The tears, which were a steady stream, are now dry, crusting on her cheeks creating a new and uncomfortable feeling for the girl.

The child crawls through the sunlight to reach a pad of paper and a pencil then she dashes back to the shadows.

Every part of her body is rigid but for her fingers which move furiously across the page. Words and phrases are being screamed but the air remains quite.

The bedroom door opens and the girl looks up to discover the perpetrator.

“How are you doing?” asks her mom softly as if her voice will break glass.

“Fine,” replies the girl.
“Do you need anything?” her mother persists.

“No.” A one word answer is sufficient.

At this the door is closed again and the girl is alone. She returns to her paper but the burning urge she had earlier felt to write has passed. Cramps roll through her cracked knuckles; she opens and closes her palms to try to ease the pain as the tears spill over her eyelids and pitter-patter onto the soft carpet. By now, the sun has landed on the girl but she can’t escape. Strength has left her body so she sits in the sun, her face streaked with tears.

Outside, in the setting sun, a lizard scurries up the brick wall, reaches the top and then breaks over to freedom on the other side.

The door opens again.

“Come out now and join the family,” says her mom, this time with more strength in her voice.

“Okay.” The girl does not mirror her elder’s strength and the word is meek and flat.

She swipes away the last of her tears with the back of her hand and walks out of her bedroom prison.
A warm dinner does nothing for the insides of a saddened child. Mouthful after mouthful, the chewed carnage settles in her intestines.
Thwack, thwack, thwack!
A baby boy bangs his spoon, alternating between his highchair and the dining room table.
The soft wood of the table gives way to the metal spoon and C shaped dents appear where the table was struck. The highchair however stays taught and shows no signs of abuse.

“I’m sorry this happened,” says one parent; the other nods in assent.

“It’s not your fault,” says the girl. No one replies; there is nothing to be said.

Mouths twitch down into frowns and then everyone is silent except for the baby boy who goes on banging.

The baby boy is many things: innocent and unaware, happy and worry free, light and bubbly, and most of all, free of pain.

The family finishes eating, dropping their forks onto ceramic plates and crumpling up their napkins. Chairs screech against tile as bodies push away from the table and carry the plates to the sink.

All the while, the baby boy continues to bang.

The girl turns on the faucet and washes away the food remains from the dishes before placing them in the dishwasher. This is her job. Tomorrow, when they are sanitized, she will put the dishes away so they can be used again.

The baby boy is lifted from his highchair by his mother’s smooth strong arms.

“Don’t forget Jamie’s spoon.” That’s the last of the dishes.

The baby boy is carried out of the room and soon will be set down again in a tub of warm water and infant safe bubbles.

“Bath time, bath time, we love to splash, we love to play. Bath time, bath time, it’s the only, only way.” This song is a bath time ritual.

The girl takes a shower because she is too old for baths.

“Wait to get in till I’m finished running your brother’s bath,” says her mom.

She steps into the hot water and scrubs herself with soap. She scrubs off the dirt from outdoor play and the wretchedness from the afternoon’s news.

Lotion soothes the cracks in her skin caused by the merciless Arizona Sun. She covers herself with soft pajamas and then blows her hair dry.
The big mirror looks at the young girl, hair still blond, eyes still blue, her forehead smooth again; an ageless face.

“Come on now, it’s been long enough,” says her mom as the door to the bathroom opens.

The girl flicks off the light and follows her mother into the family room.

“Sit down now,” her parents say softly. “Are you sure you are okay.” Worry is eveident everywhere.

“Yes, I’m okay,” says the girl but she doesn’t really know if she is.

“Okay.” The worry is still in her parent’s expressions but isn’t that the parents’ job, to worry?

Sorrow has given way to exhaustion and the couch is so comfortable. The girl sinks into the couch and her joints pop as she stretches her arms and legs. Her eyelids grow heavy and finally fall shut, she stays alert though, listening to her surroundings.

Laughter bubbles up and then bursts through the room. The girl’s eyes pop open again to match sight with sound, and she finds her baby brother giggling away as his own hands squirm in front of his face. At this, everybody in the room smiles, including the girl.

Outside, the Arizona Sun is gone, it is resting, preparing to rise on another day. Time moves forward again and life goes on. Though death is permanent its effects are only temporary and she remembers that this too shall pass.