Down at the bayou, where the crickets chirp and the mockingbirds sing. Superstitious folk swear you can hear the whispers of an apparition weaved into the buzz of the bayou. She’s a reflective and vengeful spirit, they say, advising city habitants to beware and keep her soul in your prayers. I never believed any of that, though; still, I clutch a rosary in my pocket when it gets too quiet.
I didn’t know her too well, just saw her picture in the paper and on the radio. I never really talked to girls, I always stumbled over my words and said the wrong things. She went to the girls’ school across the street, supposedly kept to herself, and walked down to the water’s edge to escape the city’s noise. Two weeks before her passing, I brought a loaf for the ducks and she was there, sitting beneath the willow tree reading a novel. Amber eyes peeked through dark bangs, glowing in the sun. I turned away. I don’t know why.
They had a mass in honor of her, yet the priests only mentioned her death once. A horrific, fatal swim. She drowned down at the bayou. It was never a popular place to begin with, but afterward it was abandoned, left to the creatures of the water and the birds in the trees and me.
My pants rolled up, my socks tucked neatly in my shoes by my side. I swayed with the breeze, my feet dipping into the warm, murky water beneath the rickety dock. The wood, once an oaky brown, was bleached and worn—mossy clusters crept up the stilts staining chartreuse. I wandered here, escaping the August sun. The willow hummed with the wind, and the soft feathers of leaves hung off the slender branches, cascading over the boggy ground. My hands traced the hem of my frayed top, my fabric thin and dainty beneath my touch.
I lazily disturbed the serene waters, my feet dipping below the layer of bright algae. I gradually leaned back, shifting my weight onto my wrists as my head slumped against the wood boards. I closed my eyes, soaking in the sunlight and sour smell of the wet earth around me. It was the rainy season in New Orleans; the humid heat resulted from downpours and high temperatures. Basking, I appreciated the fleeting sunlight and wished the rain would never return.
In the distance, a frog croaked. I pushed myself off my back, brushing my short, blond hair into place before promptly folding my arms over my chest. The frog croaked again. I glanced towards the sound, which echoed across the still water in front of me, as I lifted my feet from the marshy lake. Shielding my eyes from the intense glare of the sun reflecting off the water’s surface with my hand, I squinted at the frog. Swiftly, it dove head-first off of its lilypad perch into the green liquid.
Suddenly, the water below me ceased sparkling. I tilted my chin up, looking at the dark cloud covering the sun. I frowned, was a storm coming?
The frog lept up onto the space behind me, a small puddle forming beneath its figure. I scrunch my eyebrows, spinning around and stretching my legs out in front of me.
“Escaping the storm, too?” The frog stared back at me blankly, showing no signs of fear.
“Or are you just here to ruin the peace, huh?” I scoffed, the animals didn’t care where you came from, you were an intruder in their neglected home. In town, at work, at school, people lower their eyes and soften their voices when I’m around. Was it because I was tall? Was it because I averted my gaze when they spoke? Or was it because I slipped down to the bayou each day, my only friends the summer breeze and the kingfisher’s ballad?
The frog croaked once again, hopping closer to me. It was slicked in slime, speckled with rusty spots.
I hummed. Gazing down at the frog, I murmured, “I guess you can stay.”