Born in the landlocked month of February, somewhere between tragedy and Tuesday, the tornado sirens matched her first cry. They called her vague and passionate, giving her adjectives where others gave affection. But still, I saw past pretense, and I was lucky enough to know her. To see her through green glass lenses and stretched allegory, to witness the wind behind her coke bottle eyes. She spoke in questions, in coffee shop conversations, clinging to claustrophobia as if maybe it could save her. Maybe I could’ve saved her. But still, I remind myself, I was lucky enough to know her. When she spoke, her hands would shake, calling evidence to the unadulterated genius lurking inside her borrowed veins. If nothing else She was brimstone and birdsong, Sunday morning service and burned bridges, a mystery to all who tried to love her. She left on an insignificant day in July, when the Sun pushed down on bare skin and our blood mixed with mercury and halogens. She didn’t say goodbye. They carved a meaningless bible verse into her headstone as an afterthought, and the pastor spoke of ‘better places’ and ‘peace at last’. They danced around the word suicide, as if that made her anything less, only sending her to heaven out of guilt. And me? Well, I was lucky enough to know her.