Little Dipper

I was a holiday hire in November, giving salt scrub demonstrations at the mall. You were the H&M cashier when I bought white shirts for work. Shaggy haircut, tight jeans—you had that artsy look I liked. 

At nineteen, conversations lasted for hours. Your dead mother, distant father. My depression, fear of loss. I worried I would make you go away like the others. 

We danced on the roof and found the Little Dipper. You showed me your drawings and the CDs from your angry punk phase at sixteen. You fell asleep and I watched you breathe, thinking how pretty you looked. I still have the sketch you gave me, taped to a page in a notebook.

I took you to that playground castle made of tires, the one that seemed so big when I was a kid. You wanted to go slow, just be friends and see what happened. We kissed on the cheek.

You liked the poem I scribbled while I waited for you. We made oatmeal in your kitchen and you noticed I was shivering, gave me one of your sweaters to wear home. I kept it for a week because it smelled like you, until my mom made me give it back.

I wonder where that sweater is now. Buried in a landfill? 

Maybe you still have it because it reminds you of art school and you like its worn-in feeling.

When you feel broken, you find other broken people. I asked where home is; you said you didn’t know what was important anymore. I hope you’ve found it now.

First snow of December, we sledded and made hot chocolate. I said I wanted to kiss you, but you weren’t sure how you felt. 

I took your picture off the wall. By February, you were gone.

Did I lend you too many secrets?

I never understood what you meant, that we moved too fast as friends.

Elizabeth Helen Spencer received an MFA in Creative Writing from Temple University. She is a regular contributor of book reviews and essays to The Sunlight Press and has published fiction and poetry in various other journals. Elizabeth lives in the Philly suburbs with her family and two cats.

A Song for Elizabeth