A memory of Dorothy Gilmore
She ran the Rec Center on Rowan Street,
hosting booze-free youth nights
spun from a jukebox and local bands.
To me she was only Aunt Dot,
but my friends remember Mrs. G,
everyone’s cool aunt
whose kitchen was always open
to teens in need of commiseration,
which was how she caught word
of my early flirtation with Rio,
a mysterious pixie with lightning eyes
who wore her skirts short and sweaters tight.
I loved the rush of her wild allure
and she was keen on my letter jacket –
we might’ve made it work,
but Aunt Dot was wise.
I can’t recall her actual words,
but still feel the inflection:
You were made for so much more.
The girl is not your kind.
By which she could’ve meant ‘cool.’
I kept the jacket and lost the girl
who would be old and gray by now,
not an abuela who nods by the fire,
but a wayward girl’s great aunt
who weaves a spell from shadowed years
to cast away the sting of tears
and tame the fear her beauty bore:
You’re so much more than meets his eye.
The boy is not your kind.
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