gravel, stain, pop, fly
The girl who walked with gravel in her shoes used to be a German girl, before she'd looked for pain for the sake of her Papa, such an ardent SS officer. He'd named her Sigrid, beautiful victory. Her raw feet told her entfliehen durch fliegen allein you can escape only if you fly. Her mother never asked about the stains, kept silence for them both.
She took the flying leap far away and long after. Even her human weight was too much pressure to her soles. Then too, her voice, her accent, her out-of-order words were gravel in her ears, until she headed for the ground to take the load off. Her suicide note breathed out so many thoughts: how silence whispered just out of hearing, how shouting shrugged off words; how no shoe fit right enough for her to wear it; how her mother always mended her socks, how her father had loved stained glass. In Berlin at the end of the Final Solution, shock waves slammed, popped church windows from their sockets. The air filled with brightness as one thousand flying shards of Gothic glass found him, sure as needles.