MargenAs children we played in the schoolyard at standing perfectly still whenever somebody shouted statue. Whoever moved, lost. You had to hold on, with one foot in the air if need be, until they shouted the word that set you free.
Thirty years have passed. I still cannot move.
The others grew up, left the village, had children who in turn played and grew up. I stayed in this position, my hand reaching for a ball that no longer exists, while the seasons fill me with moss and the pigeons learn my shape.
Nobody has said the other word yet. I am beginning to suspect that whoever knew it died without knowing they had left me behind, and that somewhere in the world there is an adult who sometimes wakes with the vague guilt of having forgotten something, not knowing that this something is still breathing, standing, waiting.