Maeve

“I want to fly with them. They look so free. Happy, even. I’ve never had that.”

            I replay her words over and over again, every day. Maybe, if I had reacted differently, everything would’ve been okay. Or it would have been delayed. Looking back, I think the problem might have been just that: everything was okay.

The day I met Maeve, she was wearing yellow. It was the beginning of sophomore year, and we were all idiots. Brainwashed zombies who quoted Shakespeare and spouted out random pop culture references. Maeve was new. Obviously new. This girl, with confidence that even scared politicians, strode (because there’s no other word for it) into Honors English II and broadly declared today was “a yellow day”.

            Her dress, long and flowing, screamed out in bright fire hydrant yellow that clashed terribly with the mustard moccasins adorning her feet. Maeve’s hair was a brilliant black, a startling contrast to her light beauty. She wore no makeup, and her fresh innocence cleared the cynicism out of our aged minds.

            Sometimes it was a color. Sometimes a motif or book or even a song. The themes could last a day, an hour, or a week. It should have become monotonous, but Maeve made it fun. We never knew what to expect. We should have told her that we loved it. We should have listened to what she was teaching. We didn’t. Now we can’t