The First Day of Spring

by Nancy Tucker

I killed a little boy today.

People always said I was small for eight.

I killed a little boy today. I took him to the alleys and held my hands around his throat in the blue house. I kept on pressing even when our skins were slippy with sweat. He died underneath me and a hundred million people watched him be carried down to his mammy by a tall, strong man.

I was the one people needed to watch out for, and being the one people needed to watch out for was the safest way to be.

He was only little, and I was sure that should mean he came back alive quicker than a grown-up.

Anyway, that was how I knew being dead wasn’t forever. Not always. People who talked about dying as if it was forever were either lying or stupid, because I knew two people who definitely, definitely came back from being dead. One was Da and the other was Jesus.

I had built myself up because Molly had arrived. Mam had done it because I had left.