sonder

lucy

lucy writes poems about cheyenne in the palm of her left hand because everyone else is right-handed. that's how she likes it. people tell her not to scribble love letters on herself, that it's not lady-like and that only criminals sitting in their dusty prison cells do such things. but she doesn't hear. she sighs sweet sighs and listens to la vie en rose over and over in her brain.

there isn't anyone as in love as lucy. you should see her, drunk on the idea of her lover, walking in the right direction, nearly scraping her knees a few times, until she ends up standing on the wrong faded yellow porch. i take her home and she drags her tired feet the whole way until we're back in her orange parent's living room (orange is revolting, she insists). lucy complains she wants to go home and i tell we are but she says no, that home is on the faded yellow porch.

if you give lucy a good song and put her in the golden hour, she might sober up a bit. but she is lucy no matter how intoxicated. like yesterday, i was singing hey jude and then she grabbed my ukulele and i was surprised. then lucy started strumming the way angels do when they're molding an instrument. she never really played for me and if she ever did, i made fun of her piano fingers trying to play as ukelele fingers. and so when lucy started singing along, i started to cry because i had no idea who the hell she was and i thought i did.

there is not much more you need on a sad saturday other than your dark-haired best friend and a box of tissues. lucy will sit in the rain with me and to her, every drop is a metaphor. she says, umbrellas during storms are a foolish combination. i agree. but her mother doesn't. she sniffles to watch lucy's coat get cold and drenched. lucy tries not to care. lucy is content.

in september, lucy wanted to make pumpkin flavoured tea and watch the stars. the problem was that it was nearly thirty degrees and i couldn't focus on the sky. i just kept biting my lips to feel them. but lucy only trembled slightly and kept staring up as if she couldn't grasp the concept of space. "lucy, i think i'm going numb," i said. "feel the warmth going down your throat and spread through your stomach. wait." but fifteen minutes later i thought for sure the pair of boots we were sharing were made out of ice. then all of the sudden lucy started pointing up and talking with a feverish tone. and that's when i saw the moonbow. miraculous and vivid and recherché. just like lucy. and i swear lucy has a sixth sense for magical nights. she keeps them and their lunar rainbow colors in a jar labeled 'my soul' and on her clothes.

and so when the world needed a revolution, God sent down this girl—a fighter with sunflower centers for eyes, a soldier that never looks over her shoulder, a youthful cuban philosopher—to teach us how to love.