Socorro, Socorro

Twice called, the name of the woman I never met. There would be others. At least one, who predicted my being. And, as legend would have it, the foreshadowing that she would be gone before my arrival. She had a gift, that one, of communication. Daisies on sidewalks. A calling card from the great beyond. Love notes with no signature required. What other gifts were left behind? A curious little girl, admiring photos hung out of reach. One face, that of a stranger. Summoning the courage to approach the closet. Dresses of heather tweed. Gold silk. Peter Pan collars and covered buttons. To look but never to touch. To wonder, but never to wear. Approaching footsteps meant a vaporous exit. Some memories are not to be disturbed. A reverence for loss, instilled. Generational hand-me-downs. My father lost his sister. His mother, her daughter. A nuance lost on me as I teetered on the back of the worn leather chair, searching for myself in her.

Twice called today, the name of the woman I never met. The woman whose name was a song unsung in untold moons. The mother of the woman who had lost her daughter.