MCH

Perhaps some deaths
Are obliged to be a silent art,
A soul passing through
The shattering of a gossamer windshield
In a slow-motion movie sequence.
We imagine yours like that now.
But I still remember
The fight in your bones
While I held you,
Your feet kicking against the blanket
As your lungs refused their last breath.
But in the waning light,
We did not know
Until I turned on the lamp,
That you were empty.
And so for a time,
As the golden-hour fingers slid along the wallpaper
And to the carpet,
We mistook your silence for hope.
We sat, our collected memories and regrets
Swelling and bobbing about
In the atmosphere of that choked-out room,
Unaware
That your circle had closed
Or that evaporation could happen so quickly.
And now, our regrets
In quiet cohabitation with our memories,
Make their own circles,
Like cracks in broken glass
That make no sense at all.
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Photo credit: Allison, A Farm Girl's Life
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