Bile rises as I heave forward but refuse to surface. I clutch my chest and wheeze for air. The vision dissolves to a group of children playing around the riverbank. I double over, resting my forehead on my knees with tears wetting my eyes. Bleu’s unspeakable suffering permeates my entire being. A nightmarish terror I wish never to revisit settles deep in my psyche. I sniff, heave a staccato breath with a furtive eye wipe, and stare into her watery grave. It was the Mississippi River, not another body of water. I should have realized that earlier when I heard the calliope. She died mere hours after posing for the Shades of Bleu painting, which she’d never see alive but as a ghost. In the portrait, she appeared my age; too young to die. Another tear spills from my eye, comprehending her loss
