There are still stacks of opened boxes, the windows still uncovered,
but I feel somewhat safe, being back from the road, and behind a
row of thick trees.
Just a couch and my laptop, and the plastic, toy horses my kid sister
played with when she was little, before the demons started an endless
war in her head.
I sit Indian style in front of them on the floor, hardwood against my bare
ankles, playing with them, trying to make stories and find the right childlike
spell that will make her whole again.
My kid sister, not a kid, now a woman, sleeps upstairs, still plagued by bad
dreams even then. The demons don’t let her be. I can’t call down the angels,
and I doubt God saying doesn’t forsake us.
I put on puppet shows for her, about King Arthur and Guinevere fighting Satan,
and make up ballads of Archangel Michael fighting Satan, casting him out forever,
giving her hope her ware can be won.
At night she’ll sometimes sit outside on the back patio, even as winter comes,
in her nightshirt and jammie bottoms, listening to melancholy hymns on her
headphones. Even with God, this world is bittersweet.
I remember, when she was little, I was her favorite brother, and she followed me
like an angelic familiar, like the hope of a new morning even after a long dark night,
and I remember playing with the horses she so loved.
And she could make me see, in my older and lazy third eye, that we were riders on
the steppes and on the plains and the ancient mountains, priests and warriors in the
world so resigned to evil.
And I try to call that magic now, re-open my third eye so I can make my way to the battle,
so doesn’t have to fight alone, so she can be happy and wild yet again, be Michael chasing
Satan out forever, so she can be Gabriel, telling the world what it needs to hear.