LADY J

Lady J by Meredith Heller ©2023

       For Jennifer Harding Feb 14, 1966 - Sept 19, 2010

I only have one photo of you

you are sitting in my house in Boulder, CO

mid-sentence, your hands lifted like birds

a small nest of fire burning in each palm

you’re holding court on the pillows of Esmeralda

our eight-foot long, lime green velveteen sofa

we bought at a yard sale on 5th & Arapahoe for thirty bucks

because you said it would invite tall men to lie down

we met because we kept seeing each other around town wearing

each other’s old jeans we managed to squeeze into at the consignment store

you finally suggested we get together for a clothing swap

so we could stop paying for each other’s hand-me-downs

I came over to your apartment above the old roadhouse

and you put acupuncture needles in my arm

we dressed up for each other every day after that, sassy cabaret-cowgirls

in aubergine-colored jeans, bad-ass boots, vintage silk camisoles

we realized we were more sisters than we were strangers

and we were inseparable for the next five years

until you told me I didn’t know what God was

and if I had it to do again now, I would’ve just laughed at you

rather than walking away, because how could I not know

what God was when you always amazed me

you who wore lingerie under your Catholic school uniform

so you had something to smile about when the nuns beat you down

you who showed me how to afford to eat in Boulder

If you put it in a brown paper bag at the market, Lady M

you can put whatever price you want on it

nothing major– heirloom tomatoes, organic cherries, dark chocolate haystacks

you who would call me at 10pm on trash night

and say, Come on Lady M, time to go alley shopping!

and we’d fill the back of your beater truck with treasures we pirated from the dumpsters

both of us finding exactly what we needed to furnish our homes

you who directed me to College in Vermont

where I learned my own worth

you who asked me how I bring my poems to life

and accompanied me to do my first public reading, my hands and voice shaking

you who shamelessly ate boxes of chocolate chip cookies

in your white silk kimono while scribbling haiku

and your wisest words to me, Well Lady Meredith,

the rules only apply to you if you let them

I miss you, Lady J

I never got to say goodbye when you were dying

we had drifted apart and old grudges kept us that way

I didn’t find out until a year later

you came to me in a dream one mid-September night

when you didn’t answer my calls or emails, I searched you up

I found your obituary; stunned– I asked questions

the answer came too late, pancreatic cancer

I went for a walk that night, one year from the day you died

and I swear you came with me

said you were ready to move on

and I was the only one you hadn’t spoken with

and then there was this moment

when you let me to see through your eyes

everywhere I looked all the molecules

glowed like millions of tiny suns

I stood there transfixed

you said, This is what it really looks like, Lady M

and then it was over

and you were gone

and it was too late to tell you

that I had seen your hands lift like firebirds

that the scenes on your kimono came to life

and danced in luminous poetry.