Who offered 6-year-old-me deals of a toothbrush or a paddle,
(I took the paddle).
Who would call to say “be there in ten,”
And rang again in forty-five.
Who told me to stop trying to sneak out
And just use the front door.

Who, on every spontaneous trip to Barcelona or Belize
would add another nameless instrument to the stage
of our living room, with nameless band mates to follow,
and would drag me from bed at 2 AM on a Monday
and hand me a guitar.

Who I learned to play guitar for, so I could send to her my
“Wish You Were Here” and she could listen from wherever
her 1970s camper and wanderlust heart had taken her.

Who gave advice of “If you’re gunna be stupid, ya gotta be tough.”

Who yelled at Ashlyn and me the first time she caught
us with a joint- “What the hell are you doing? Don’t you share?”

Who, after I invented master plans of how to get rid of
the smell of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, how to keep
Troy from sleeping in her bed and Jordan from drinking her Captain
And Jeremiah from eating all the food she left me,
always returned from her trips and knew, within minutes,
that her house had been our playground

Who would simply ask, “have fun?”

Who mistook adolescent angst and the silence of my Nirvana daze
for a resentment of struggles past, and
Who thought I felt better off without her around.

Who may have been right,
but was probably wrong.