Time has passed and I remain in the muck of the pit that I willingly crawled into, who knows how long ago.  From time to time I hear people on the outside fold the grass with their feet as they walk by.

On this day the sun winds around the muddy walls and just as it starts to disappear over the top and settle on the horizon, a small head comes into view. A  little girl peers down; her short ponytail is a single curl. She glows like a sunny memory in the fading light.

“What are you doing?”

I roll over in the dirt, off my back and onto my side to face her, propping myself up on one elbow, “What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re playing in the mud,” the girl smiles wide with her little pink mouth closed. She moves forward, and there are pastel dogs and girls walking them on the dress she is wearing; An outfit I remember wearing often when I was little.

“We can go with that,” I grimace, dirt crackling off of my face, looking right into her light brown eyes. She is not scared of me. Her face shows more disappointment than anything, like when you look in the mirror after getting out of bed and think you might not be quite that ugly in the morning.

She shifts her weight between bare feet, “You want some help you out of there? Don’t you have friends?”

“Do you?”

The little girl looks over the pit at a solitary dandelion in the grass and thinks of the space in the hallway where the kids put on their boots in the winter before going out to play in the snow at recess. Where she stays, sits and reads, alone. When her teacher makes her go outside in the spring, her place is behind the equipment shed.

“I”m going to go home now…” she begins to back away.

I roll onto my back again to face the darkened sky. The little girl runs away without a goodbye and a certain comfort disappears with her, as if she were a thick white cloud shading me from a light that is too bright for me to stare into.

The sun has gone with her and a light rain begins to fall. The dirt that has dried over the past few days is now mud, renewed. It’s going to be impossible to climb out tonight. Too slippery, too difficult, whatever. In the rain, on the earth, I lay my head on my arm. I can taste the grit of the dirt that has made its way into the corner of my mouth and make no effort to spit it out. It doesn’t matter as I drift off to sleep alone, as I sometimes declare I prefer.

I see a hand in the dark at the top of the pit; someone is reaching down in the blackness to help me out. I study it; we both must know that I am too far down for them to actually reach me. The rain drops thicken and land in my eyes and cheeks. I blink and make no move towards the gesture. The hand disappears and I hear a rustling above. Whoever it is has now lain upon the filthy ground and is leaning into the pit, arms outstretched. An effort I take no more stock in than a ghost brushing up against my shoulder.

When I wake up in the morning to the abrasive sun in my eyes, I look to the top of the pit and no one is there. Next to me, though, is the imprint of someone else. On my shoulder, the muddy mark of a hand that I only thought could be a dream.

Luciana, 25