How They Practice

The chalk was white and broken,

held in small hands

that knew exactly what they were doing.

One child lay down on the driveway,

arms at her sides,

legs slightly apart,

while another child traced around her

with the practiced precision of someone

who'd seen this before,

who knew the shape of a body

in a way children shouldn't have to know.

The outline was perfect.

The child inside it didn't move.

I stood there watching this rehearsal,

this casual performance of the permanent,

and no one seemed to think it was strange.

Her sneakers were inside the lines.

Her hair was inside the lines.

She was completely still.

"Am I dead now?" she asked the sky.

"Yes," said the other child, still drawing.

I kept walking.

I don't know how long she stayed there.

I don't know if they did it again.

I don't know why it stayed with me,

the image of a child pretending to be still,

learning how to be the shape of gone,

learning it so casually,

like it was just another game,

like her body wasn't practice for something real,

like the chalk wasn't counting down to something.