As I talk of you,

my voice is like the crack of the sidewalk

the one I promised not to step on,

for your back was too precious to break.

My eyes are glistening

with the threat of oncoming tears,

clear like the vase I gave you

on your day,

filled with white roses

and promises left unbroken still.

My wrists are wet,

like our hair when we swam

in our ocean together,

swirling braids whirling in the salty depths,

and they are red,

like daddy's bleeding wounds

when he came home late at night

from God knows where.

My head is thumping

louder than my heart when they told me

yours had stopped. 

My hands are shaking.

Help me, Mommy.

You must remember what dying feels like.