It’s lonely here – and dark –
now the fire’s burned down
to greasy ash and charred bone.
All that’s left of you,
of your books of herbal lore,
of your charms and potions.
“Evil” he cried
and cast them in to burn as well.
A foster child, with rebellion in his soul,
clever as a thief and twice as quick.
Into the oven,
your clothes aflame in a heartbeat,
your years of tender care – forgotten.
I remember when you found us,
lost in a white on white maze
of birches and snow.
My brother the stout knight errant,
on a mighty quest to save the damsel.
Me, somehow still lost,
even with my hand in his.
The snow on your house
hung like sugar frosting from low eaves,
piled high about the cherry red door
in playful sculptures, suggesting a child inside.
But you were grey and bent –
and older than Old.
It began when you pulled us apart,
set us at table with equal shares.
He was used to better
and ever after I could feel him,
in the yard at his chores,
watching our silhouettes
on the frosted windows.
In the garden, you taught me herbs –
what healed and what didn’t.
While we cooked you spoke
of hard births and easy deaths,
and all the different arcs of life.
Each day I grew – a little.
That long path to strength.
I must have thought
your frailty an illusion –
that. old, you must be invincible,
armored in age and wisdom.
I would conjure you back, if I could,
but you were the one
with magic at your fingertips.
He took your money,
what little there was,
and scowled when I refused
to take his hand.
Perhaps,
something whispered in his ear
that I was not a little sister any more.
I did not weep when he left.
It’s written down,
what I remember
of the things you taught me.
The smallest part of what you knew,
no more.
So I think I shall wander,
and talk to old women,
and write until the weight of it
settles me in some gingerbread house.
I have years to spend and, perhaps,
along the way I’ll find a cure,
for the acrid taste of ashes.
Or rescue two lost children.
Though if I do, I’ll teach her first
that women
must watch each other’s backs.