Elegy for a Fallen Comrade

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.