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Poem

The Coca-Cola lamp 
made a circle of light
on the nightstand—
               (soft and amber)
barely touching the horses beneath it.
You lifted the needle up gently, 
and set it down lightly again:
“Bye, bye, Miss American Pie…”
We didn’t say goodbye. Not really.
Not the kind that counts.

You’d circled my picture 
in the yearbook—
mine and hers, the girl I once loved.
No note, no message. Just circles.
I did not deserve that kindness.
Not then.
But you gave it anyway,
like you were holding space
for the better self 
you believed I could be.

Back at school, I wrote you—
I remember once about cats,
wishing I could become one
and just slip through things
with grace, and, invisibly.
You wrote back in neat, uneven script,
on lined paper that smelled like home.
I still thought there’d be time to know you—
But then
the phone rang.

You were taken from me too early.
I never got to tell you I’m sorry—
not for any one injustice,
but for my slow turning away
I didn’t even notice
until it was done.
I played Day After Day
until the silence behind it
became your voice again,
just beyond the reach of mine.

You loved horses, and dogs, and Elvis—
and something in me 
I couldn’t yet name.
Now I find you in lamplight and records,
in the hush before a song begins,
in the soft strength of being seen
without being asked to explain.
You were more than my sister—
you were my first comrade,
and the first one to fall.

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