Red Giant

I lost my director today. She who picked out my prettiest slip, the one with the lace neckline, stitched on my cardboard wings and helped me rehearse my lines. I was an angel heralding hope in her neighborhood passion play. She was our DJ, too awkward, she’d said, to dance. Cousins and sibling learned to groove to her 45s. The stars in our eyes, we took off with Lucy in the Sky, soared with Jefferson Airplane.

I lost my story teller today. Her eyes squinted, inflamed with so many pages read. Her body smelled musty like the best of old hardbacks. She’d tell tales of Marco Polo, Greek myths, Tudor treachery, American politics hopeful, whimsical and unsightly. She’d embellish common time, B.C., evolution and the universe. Her stories always came with a tug on her sleeves to hide the scars on her arms.

I lost my teacher today. She could find the sparkle in any quadratic equations the logic hidden in the corners of triangles, rectangles and squares. Imprinted on me a love for the Bard. I’d write her first after walking the streets of Antigua, York or Athens. Try to describe the texture of history brushed that day. A history I only knew through her. She, too often broke or broken, a history she only touched through me.

I lost my sorceress today. She conjured the world in rich hues. Sprites and witches danced in her light and destruction.

A star dims. I lost my sister today.

Elizabeth Mathes