For Jennifer V.
The classiest girl our town had ever seen,
beautiful tomboy at 11, just plain beautiful at 17.
Did we ever witness her sashay into a room,
without that million-dollar smile, without the turning
of a dozen heads?
She was so nice.
It was what we all said when she passed away unexpectedly
in icy January, once again becoming the talk of the town.
We all had our favorite memories: at the public swimming pool,
the park, the softball field, or just hanging around.
Mine was the town Halloween party when I dressed up like a blue crayon
and wandered around the parade route alone
until she came along dressed as a Princess
with her magical wand of acceptance, grabbed my hand and,
for a few hours, pulled me into the fairy tale of belonging.
We were all in shock.
She was so nice, we collectively said.
But, what we meant was she was beautiful, so very perfect,
and it shook us to the bone that death could take her,
out of nowhere,
in the way it takes magnolia trees during late spring thunderstorms,
in the way a poacher claims a young Bengal tiger from a distance,
without even looking it in the eyes.
In the way time takes the summers of our childhood,
one grass-stained memory at a time,
sparing nothing sacred, nothing beautiful or ornate,
just waving it's invisible hand as all that we built
is
over time,
erased.
Madisun Medved 1/18/2024,