I first met her reading in line
standing by the boxes-of-books-library
built in a corner of a classroom.
I saw her clearly in Chapter 2
as I flipped pages and breathed hard,
saliva-saturated fingers flying off paper
sounding like a hurricane coming.
Hurry up, chile, the stone-faced teacher said
then snatched the book to record its title
just as Matthew Cuthbert said to Anne,
“Come along.”
*
I was turning ten and she was eleven,
this white orphan girl from far-off Canada
coming into my island haven,
into my book-shaped heart.
I knew we would not part.
I cried true tears for the girl,
her hair as red as ginger lily blooms,
her small face mottled as a mango
ripened with a thousand sun dots
but she was sassy, sunny, so full of words.
I loved her the minute she told Matthew
she’d named the pond, “Lake of Shining Waters”
and the gravel road with cherry blossoms,
“The White Way of Delight.”
I renamed our red dirt yard, “Hibiscus Heaven.”
I loved living there.
*
I followed Anne all the way to
the “Bend in the Road”
breathless to know—will she stay
or go? Will Marilla go blind?
I wanted to read forever.
When I found the final pages missing—
taken by moths and mice who had eaten well,
I cannot tell how many questions came.
Would the river where we washed clothes
and caught crayfish disappear some night?
Where might it go? How will I know?
You can’t get blood outta stone,
my mother said, seeing my sadness.
So I ate a mango and made up my mind
to make up endings, beginning with the
unfinished copy of Anne of Green Gables.
Anne and I—still fabled friends.
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