Breakfast at Epiphany's
( In the early 1980's alerts for missing children were printed on milk cartons)
A milk carton with the top cut like a castle tower, prominent on the window sill, weighted with sand. Three black candles thrust into it. Looking like black robed Priests huddled together; their cowls raised where the wax had drained away from the wicks. They, the candle priests I was imagining, were bent over by the heat of the sun that had penetrated her curtains, as though in prayer or viewing summer camp photos together.
"Ah," she came out from behind the curtain and I moved off. "You don't have to worry," she reasured me, while picking up a box of wooden matches. I like wooden matches, and I wasn't worried. I was unwilling to be false with her, so I was guarded; and thinking about leaving, getting out and walking in the coming, early dawn. I love the rising sun. Generally arrived at from late nights rather than early mornings. I crossed the room. She lit them one by one and spoke a mantra that broke me. "Not missing...never lost...safe and strong." Then more at ease, she turned and beckoned me to get comfortable. I was weeping, and felt right at home falling to my knees and hugging my soul. I looked to the candles burning; flickering, grounding. "That was me," she said, indicating the picture on the side of the carton. I could see the resemblance, besides the black hair and piercings. "The missing child." I began to compose myself. "Pretty cool, hu?" She asked, "When I was famous, 'my fifteen minutes,' Rachel says. "Thing is though, they never had me? Think about it, I'm not a fucken dog? And you can't be lost, if you never wanted to be found in the first place." "You ran away?" I asked, taking the seat she'd indicated beside her, on the couch. "I don't think I've ever stopped, not yet." "Come closer and hold me, please." So I put my arm around her. "I don't let many boys in here, but your one of the good ones, I can tell."
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