Sky

My mom knew her brother as Ronnie when they were kids. We never met, but I heard he was a nomad who changed his name to Sky. When he tested positive, the photos rolled in. Maybe that’s what people did in the 80’s, when they were dying. I thought I was adopted until I saw him. Sky and I shared faces like homes, whose cheekbones never moved in. We were the trees in their backyards: tall, long limbed, with hair like high canopies.

Mom remembered that he wouldn’t let his peas touch his potatoes, or his potatoes touch his meat. Finally, someone sensible, who understood there was a correct way to eat. In passing, she mentioned he was a poet. It was strange how far Sky’s genes had traveled, but no one remembered until 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.