Sky

My mom called her brother Ronnie when they were kids in rural Missouri. I never met him, but I heard he was a drifter, and changed his name to Sky. The call came in that he tested positive for a virus. Back in the early 80’s, the medical community’s understanding was thin. Our rural community’s knowledge found it positively sin. Mom hauled out dusty shoe boxes to reminisce about someone living. Sky and I shared long thin faces, like two story homes, whose cheekbones never moved in. We were the trees in their backyards: tall, long limbed, with unruly canopies for hair. He was also a writer. Sky didn’t let his peas touch his potatoes, or his potatoes touch his meat. He understood the code: the correct way to eat. It was curious how all but his genes had traveled. I wish we would have met before he unraveled.

Crystal Taylor is a neurodivergent writer with recent work in Rust & Moth, ONE ART, Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, Cosmic Daffodil and other sacred spaces. Follow her on X @CrystalTaylorSA.