Killing Samuel and Moving On

Letter Three

Dear Phoebe,

In third grade, after Grandma died, honey had no taste.
You said, in your infinite wisdom of one that was eight,
it was the sadness that had taken all my taste away.
Babydoll was the nickname Grandma had for me.
Even though I was a "boy."
Looking back on it now, Bee, I think she knew even before me.

After Grandma died, I stopped seeing you as a friend.
"Friend" wasn't enough.
"Best friend" didn't encompass the power of our bond either.
The nectar of our budding something was more than
periwinkle and pearls.
I'm losing my focus now, aren't I, Bee?
Sorry, but I think you know
what I mean.

I found a sister in the girl with stars in her eyes and
browning silk for hair.
You became my moonlight, Bee.
Even though it was the sun that
you favored.
With your sweet-pea heart and your words of twilight.
There was no wrong that you could do in my eyes.

I held you on a pedestal, Bee.
Turned you into some kind of starlet.
Because that's what happens when someone helps you through grief.
They become the meadow through the mist when you thought all the flowers had gone.
Ethereal is the mind of
such young children.
To think that such dreams
could ever last.

That's where things started to really go wrong, Bee.
Because the growing desire was only ever a
one way street.

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