Sarah

It was the picture of her graduating that started the whole thing. My want to design her life. Fill in the gaps. Triangles in square holes. And then later the photograph of her friends celebrating. The class of 93, black, button up vests and applique quilt patches, chokers tight around their necks, those two strands of hair pulled and twisted forward, framing their faces. Didn't everyone have those two strands of hair then? A membership card for something or other.
Her name was Sarah, so I learned later on, and she had an older sister whose hair was much darker. Their mouths were the same, that's how I knew they were sisters. Because of the way their mouths looked. Crooked a little. I wondered if hers had ever said my name.
And then of the shape of her mouth right before she said it and then right after. Two red pillows like heartbeats on her face. 
I didn't wonder how her voice sounded. I already knew how it felt.
I spent the two days after writing everything about her that I was sure to be certain,
breathing in that photo, a road map.
She wanted to help people, that much was clear. She liked peanut butter. And the smell of the air right before Summer turned into Fall. There was a scar on her left elbow, a souvenir from a summer spent camping the year she turned thirteen. She collected pennies, spoke broken Spanish when ordering food in restaurants, wore socks over her tights. White socks. Red Socks. Green.
Once, when Joey Forrester asked her to the Winter Dance she said no because he wanted her too much and she didn't feel enough.
"You deserve to go with someone who wants to be there with you as much as you want to be there with them," she had said, "it feels so much better when you're not trying to feel." She promised.