wendy-scofield-Unsplash
by Charlotte Hamrick
Leap, I think, That’s what they’ve done whether by choice or by push, they’ve all taken the leap into death. I walk through the cemetery reading tombstones of people who are now ghosts before finding Emily Dickinson’s grave. Removing my gloves, I pass my hands over the headstone inscription, Called Back, while leaves in the red oaks seem to whisper the words like a lullaby as they rub each other gently, reverently in the breeze. Suddenly Emily, my labradoodle, gives a little yip and lies down with her head on the grave. I read online that Emily became more reclusive after her dog’s death and once said “They are better than Beings – because they know – but do not tell.” My Emily rolls over the grave, leaps up with an excited bark, and runs through the long grass while the oak leaves sing.
Charlotte Hamrick writes, reads, and photographs extraordinary everyday things in New Orleans. Her writing is included or upcoming in a number of literary magazines including Louisiana Literature, BULL, Punk Noir, Emerge Literary Journal and is anthologized in Best Small Fictions 2022 and 2023.
