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Writer
Join Date: Feb 2004
Posts: 38
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Hear me out Janie
Hear Me Out Janie
written by Mattan Griffel
Janie had a way with words. When her lips parted, everything that surrounded her turned and waited for what she was about to say. When Janie was happy, she would let out a little whimper, reminding you that she was part child, part angel. Her face was small, petite, with soft cheeks that had the slightest dimples. Her eyes sparkled blue. When she was really interested, they would widen, and then tighten around you. That’s when you knew you had her attention. She had snowy white teeth, pale red lips, and light blonde hair that flowed behind her when she moved, always trying to keep up.
That is how I knew Janie.
She was unique, she was original. Sometimes, when you were inside your house during a storm, and you looked outside, there she would be, with her arms stretched open for the sky. She yearned for it. The water droplets clung to her face. Her hair pressed down against her shoulders in the rain. She might spin around like a dancer, and maybe, if her eyes met with yours through the glass of your window, you would see that she was just as bright as she always was, even in the gray that surrounded her. Even in the rain.
And sometimes, instead of rain, there would be snow, on an early January morning. And outside your window would be Janie, in the large expanse that was her front yard. She lay with her back towards the earth, with her arms and legs stretched out, scratching against the snow, making a snow angel. She didn’t need to make them. She was a snow angel. Her blue jacket wrapped around her, it hugged her. She would go back inside dry, because the perfect little snowflakes loved her, and agreed that they should never wet her. She might wave to you if you plodded outside through the snow, to get your mail from across the street, and you would get sad as you reached the mailbox, because you had to grab the letters before you could turn around and see her again.
And if she has friends over, they might dance around her room with the blinds open. And you might see it, if you looked. When she jumped on the bed, she defied physics, not even gravity could keep her down. And you might get angry, because for every second her friends were there, she could not be amazing, she could not be herself.
And her clothing might change. She might start wearing jeans that pressed tightly against her legs, and a shirt that made you giggle when you read it, but you laughed less each time. She would get taller, and her long blonde hair might change color, with dark red streaks.
But every now and then she could be outside, when there was nothing but stars that shone down upon her. They shone on her, but only for her. She may sit her tree, in the backyard, with long branches, and flowers with pink petals that fell off and slowly hovered towards the ground. She would sit kicking her legs back and forth, and every time a petal fell into her hair, she would place it in the palm of her hand and hold onto it. They fell for her to hold.
And some nights a car with fiery red paint would drive up to her house, and she would step out of the passenger seat. Maybe there would be a boy with her, and if you saw him touch his fingers to hers, you would feel a pain in your chest. They would walk up to her door. She had a black purse that draped around her sculpted shoulders, and her eyes still sparkled, but a little less. And her beautiful lips would touch his, and you would close your eyes. Maybe you would hear her breathing.
Sometimes, at night, there could be a sound coming from her house, and there would be lights, and people, and music. They gravitated around her. She was the same, only her eyes were a little darker, and her face a little paler. She wore a laced top, and her hair was not be long and flowing anymore, but her words still sang, and they stretched out until you could hear them, like bells ringing. And she might step into a car, the same fiery red car, and speed off down the street until she was out of sight, and you could no longer hear her voice, or feel her beauty.
And maybe, a few days later, there would be no more sound, no more laughter, no more beauty. You might see people show up, dressed in black, crying. You might wonder, until a hearse pulls up with a casket, and you do not see Janie anymore, and your eyes might start to water.
Days might pass, years, and you will look into her backyard, into her tree, and see it the way it always stood, and imagine Janie sitting on top of its branches, gracing it with her presence.
The world will have lost its most precious jewel.
As if the rain, the snow, the flowers, and the stars had always existed only for Janie.
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