The streets are boiling. Cars, hulking coals.
I grabbed her hand, and we dove headlong.
Each the other’s ephemeral sanctuary.
I’m terrified.
I know.
Our words soot, disappearing.
Slender shadows on a receding ceiling.
The scarecrows have salted the fields.
The ancient one rocks slowly.
More petroglyph than bone and flesh.
She is a wilting, wise bouquet.
A metronome. Floral dress.
Hands in lap, folded.
Licking flames, a taunting picture frame
A silhouette in a splintered window.
She is half-mast, stars down, distressed.
I remember butter and honey. And the stars. It’s been ages it seems.
Her voice is steady, an ode to elocution past. And the rocking stops.
Take these. She hands me two books, which I have never seen. One with a cross and one with an eagle and crest. We are nearly surrounded. Go south, now, run. It’s going to be bad before it’s better. Be a new ark. Endeavor.
What about you? Won’t you come with us?
Don’t worry about me. I am an old flag. It’s my time to burn. But I’ll rise with the embers. Look for me in the better sky that you build. Now go. There’s no need to lock the door on your way out.
I never knew my mother. She died birthing me. My grandmother, Mary, raised me. She had secrets; I was never allowed in her library. I heard car doors and footsteps often. Hushed voices. The phone rang at odd hours. Habitually. And then nothing. And then less than that. Our world became kindling. And the bad children have all the matches—she would repeat that frequently.
Your mother’s name was Gemini. And your name is Castor. The brightest star.
She would stand in the thick ink of midnight and point. There, there you are. Someday you will be whole. When you face yourself you will know yourself.
We ran south. For days. When we finally stopped I noticed the note in the book with the cross.
Dear Castor, we’ve traveled deep into ourselves. But we’ve forsaken knowledge and gratitude. The distance between love and neglect is indifference. I watched it all on my watch. I am the last of a thinning horde of sentinels, our eyes now a four-alarm fire. I have failed. I am sorry.
You have a twin brother. His name is Pollux. He is outside the wall, where our world ends, and the new future begins. Look to the light. Find him.
And make a difference.
I love you.
Grandma Mary