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maybe it was her mother for her coathanger nettle tea free arrival on the planet. maybe it was her father for staying home at night for once. who knows? maybe it was the god of Abraham for not thinking about daughters. maybe it was that bush she fell into for not being rose or burning. maybe it was her siblings leaving food for her in her slowness. maybe it was the soda jerk for looking the other way. maybe it was the school teacher for making her clean all the chalkboards. maybe it was the teacher’s pet for not making her stay. maybe it was the crossing guard for staying ten minutes extra. maybe it was the trees for making her green skirt blend in. maybe it was pastor himself always trying to seem so free of sin. maybe it was the murderer himself for thinking boys are better prey. maybe it was her strong ankles from that brief stint at ballet. maybe it was all thanks to ma’dear for constantly making her pray. maybe it was the echo on the sidewalk for having something to say. maybe it was inherited swiftness in her legs that let her run home that day. but the boogie man didn’t quite catch her. so thanks. either way.1