NaPoWriMo #24

Tuesday, April 24, 2018


Gray rain and warm and leaves over the driveway 
since yesterday.  Is this weather to remember the dead?
Angela comes to me, gone from this plane since we 
were twenty-three, though I’d last seen her at twelve, 
shocking everyone by having chosen shoes no one else
would have worn.  She made her own worlds.  Not just
the shoes, but her steady gaze, her air of knowing she 
was loved, though she had no father.  Her strange humor. 
We sat next to each other in fourth grade, and I learned 
the first day delight in a friend so utterly herself it must
have hurt, though if it did, she never showed it.  Our 
cranky teacher, who ruined my year, once turned her 
disapproval on Angela, who was always floating in late
from her house across the street from school.  You’re
cramping my style!  Angela spat back.  She is somewhere
in a photo album of mine, a ribbon around her neck, 
Cherokee eyes and Kool-Aid lips.  Every time I hear an
owl I think of her mother saying a hoot owl at night 
means death.  But the thought of her is life.  She was 
so odd, that kid.  She was all I needed to know about style.  

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