Cimarron

The sun was not yet setting, but the sky was dusky and it was hard to see the individual stalks of grass. The whole landscape seemed to be made of one substance, undulating with the breeze. One of her two points of reference in the world was setting, and the grass was licking up at the black and blue sky, neglecting them entirely. “See what you did?” she repeated to the doll a few times, holding it by its feet and slapping its head into the roof of the car. She calmed herself, pushing her wobbling chin with her fist. Seedheads of ancient grasses blessed the car with the most delicate touch, and if the wind could carry her parent’s voices as they carried the wind’s kiss, she might have heard them and run home. She sat with her legs trailing over the windshield as she had done at family picnics to watch fireworks. “No, no. Don’t cry baby. We can fix this,” she whispered, propping the doll up to look out over the flatland. She wondered if she could fix this.

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