The First Light I Ever Knew

I waved goodbye
as the school bus carried you away
my first light
my first friend,
the only soul who never flinched
when I whispered truths
about the world behind this one.

You were light
the kind that softened shadows
instead of banishing them.
With you, the house felt less haunted,
the corners less crowded,
the silence less sharp.

I told you about the woman in the hallway,
the man who lingered in the corner,
the figures that drifted like smoke
through our childhood home
and you only laughed,
tilting your head
to glance in the same direction.

You saw them too.
That was our secret,
the quiet magic that bound us
long before grief learned our names.

We sat together on our tall, soft bed,
your presence wrapped around my fear
like a shield made of laughter.
Your smile lit the entire room
a warm glow
I thought I’d never lose.

Whenever something frightened me,
you were the first to step in
letting go of your own ease
to hold mine.
You didn’t fight the dark;
you just stood beside me
until it loosened its grip.

You were my older sister
my companion in two worlds,
my witness
to the unseen.

So when I waved goodbye
as the school bus took you away,
I didn’t cling to fear.
I trusted you’d return
like sunlight does
even after the longest shadows.

I didn’t yet know
that some lights
aren’t meant
to stay.