You,  the oversized ebony angel from the archives.

You, the splint and plaster of my fractured childhood

You hold such prominence in memory now,

and held such a menial station in the reality of our shared time.

Your efforts were the crown jewel of my mother's fabricated myth.

The shine you put on her windows with vinegar and newspaper

lay over the mock order and stability that she sought to project.

Your knees slid across the old green tiles polishing every one

with me riding on your back, giddyup and yippie i o.

Your weekly arrival temporarily dispelled the dust  of chaos and mayhem,

that had gathered and lay like heavy wet wool,

making my world stink and bleed mold. THe humid angst took my breath,

and threatened my life.

You were my constancy Dear Distil, my silent steadiness in the storm;

a light house blinking in a tired black face.

One day out of seven your dark eyes followed me, comfoted me, sustained me.

You washed my tear stained hopes with the hands of validation;

Someone knew my truth,

Someone silently shared my sorrow.

And the rage of the wretched woman gone mad with grief

didn't sting so much on Thrusday.

Her shrill savage hurt sang out of tune,

and you snuck in my room

to teach me how to iron.

Today is your day, my silent pillar, a day I'm quite sure  you never dreamed of .

I knock on doors for you, of houses that may hold secrets just like mine...

Much change has come over time.

This day is for me and you, Dear Distil

Yes we can!