Part of a submission for my creative writing program.

Maybe I did it. I wish today wasn’t grey. I wish it was yesterday.

“I spoke to your teacher today,” she said, running her finger along my nose. I used to get stories before bed. Now she just pulls blankets to my chin and rubs my nose. And she stares for a while.

“Tell me about the water, bumblebee.” I miss the stories. She was really good at voices. I think the water took the voices away. “She said you’ve been talking about it like it’s a monster.” It is. I stopped playing hopscotch with them. There’s so many of them and they’re always here. And they creep around like creeping things.

“I don’t want them here anymore,” I said. “They scare me.”

“Don’t want what here? Water?”

“The puddles. I don’t want the puddles here anymore.”

“There aren’t any puddles, bumblebee. They’re not going to hurt you.” I didn’t know how to explain it to her. But then she bent down to kiss my head and kept it there for so long I thought she knew what I meant. She just didn’t want to talk to me about it like she didn’t want to talk to me about why people kiss with their eyes closed.

“Will I see you in the morning?” She takes baths after my bedtime. I think it’s because I keep knocking. I worry.

“Of course you will,” she said. “Don’t be silly.” I looked at her a little brave, a little terrified.