The last time I saw you alive you were driving in a 4-wheel drive truck much too big for your little body. Your pale wrists flashed above the steering wheel as you made the right turn onto Mamalahoa Highway. You didn't see me--how could I have known?
When you misunderstood me that night--in our last class of the writing circle--your eyes grew round and dark with expression, and you seemed so relieved. I knew you had misunderstood, believed for a moment that I had said our class would continue and not end. It seemed like a lifeline to you then. No, I corrected you. It was ending, and this was the last class. So typical you would not have gathered this from the various conversations and would emerge from your pink cloud only now to interject your misshapen response. Oh. Danielle.
I know there were other ways for you to be whole and peaceful and to love yourself even a little. I know I couldn't have stopped your momentum away from us and toward the ether. But I would give a million monarchs back to the sky to have you here for one more day, assign you one more poem, tell you one more time how beautiful and how fierce were your words...and your love.