He was a storm chaser,
I was the little girl with wings on my feet.
Some days we talked about dark skies and
the kind of rain that made everything new,
and on others I confessed that the wings on my feet were broken.
He said, “keep going.”
So I did.
He was a champion,
I was a scared little sister.
Some days we turned Led Zeppelin up too loud,
and he would tell me that sometimes he felt like he was running
and he had no idea what he would find at the end.
I said, “keep going.”
So he did.
He was the one who died young,
I was the one who grieved.
Some days I think I hear the crunch of metal that stopped his heart,
and I would call his name, not knowing if he was the shelter
or the storm.
But someone always says, “keep going,” and I hear his voice again.
So I do.