Calypso - Anna Miller ‘24
The main theme in my work from last year was investigating the female image throughout Greek mythology and how the depictions of female heroines and tragedy myths bring attention to feminism and sexism today. A myth that has always stood out to me is Calypso, who was cursed to be isolated on an island for eternity. Men would wash ashore on her island, and she was cursed to fall in love with every one of them, but they could never love her back and would return to where they came from. This piece is to honor that myth, calling attention to how it could affect the way women are viewed throughout history.
You can smell the red tide from the dock
And the grease from our abandoned fast food
She, The Musician, and I, The Writer
Talk on the dock across the lighthouse
Over murky waters
And under hazy starts and
Brighter air plane lights.
She, The Musician,
Tells me that it’s hard to see the night sky
Her eyes get blurry
And the starts look like static,
So I describe the stars for her.
At least the ones I could see
That I knew weren’t airplane lights,
The strange far away giant balls of gas
That made us feel so small,
Yet filled with a sense of bliss,
Because from where we stood on the dock,
They looked so tiny,
Like we could conquer them.
She says I describe the starts like a writer.
Though we are two different people
Our lives have intertwined in strange ways
We share stories of similar ex-best friends,
Girls who have torn us in two.
And we joke about our strange accents
And our love of melodies and the oceans.
She, The Musician, tells me a song she wrote about cardinals
A song that’s really about her mother
And I recall the texts she sent me,
I was in the library at school,
She was at home, telling me her mom was going through Chemo again
She plays me the song, and I urge her to record it
And show it to the world.
And I, The Writer,
Recall my stepmom telling me in the backyard of my house
Early one winter morning
Mom was passing a message to us
Through the cardinals song.
And even though her mother is alive,
She is not living.
Just like how mom didn’t live when she got sick with Lymes.
And she, The Musician, is mad
Because when her father picked her up
From my house last night
He told her her mother’s life is like a wilting flower
And she recalls the gardenias she and her mother picked
When she was a kid
How come her father had to tell after leaving my house?
With the aftertaste of joy she felt
When singing me the cover of a song we both liked.
In that deep, melancholy voice
That can make anyone fall in love with her
Now that aftertaste felt like residue.
Driving in the passenger seat of her father’s car
And while watching TV at home with her mother.
And I recall December 8th,
dad driving me and my brother
Into the Forest
And I knew that mom was gone.
And I knew before dad told us.
Why did she have to go when I was eleven?
Why couldn’t she stick around for middle school,
When girls would tease me about my erratic personality
Or high school or prom
Or college admissions,
Where I can’t seem to write about her anymore.
I am the writer.
I tell her, the musician, this,
That I can’t write about my mom like I used to.
And it really seems like she’s fading in my memory.
Or I deflect with too many jokes, so I don’t think about the pain anymore.
And she, the musician, cries.
Thinking about the future.
Staying home to help her mother
Pursuing music instead of college
And what will happen to her mother?
And what will she do?
And then, I, The Writer, recall the times mom and I spent together
When mom told me about how she and dad met
Dad, strutting up to mom with the all the confidence in the world,
While she talked to another boy,
And introduced himself.
She, the musician, laughs,
And tears sting my eyes a bit,
As I think about me, a young writer, on the bed,
And mom, in the wheelchair,
Watching movies on our old TV.
And eating dark chocolate late at night.
All these memories pop up as I talk on the dock
And we joke, she, The Musician, and I, The Writer.
And our laughs fill up the intracoastal
She, the musician, worries if her music isn’t very good
If making music is the right choice.
I tell her to do it, because her heart leans this way
And not doing so will make her feel like she has lost a piece of her soul.
She tells me I give advice like a writer.
But I worry that one day, our paths will diverge.
And we won’t have the similar lives we do now.
But I realize that we are like two rings interwoven like an infinity
And this is what it means to share a part of your soul with someone.
And after next year, even if we don’t see each other again,
Even if we are forever intertwined,
She, The Musician, will make music that brings life into people’s eyes.
And I, The Writer, will write as I have always done.
But for now, we pick up our fast food, and throw it away.
We have the rest of our lives ahead of us.
The Musician and the Writer
In high school, you lose a lot of friends, even friends who you feel share a parallel life to yours. “The Musician and The Writer” explores this idea through a conversation between my friend and me. We discuss where we come from and where we are going to go, with or without each other.