To Leave Is To Die A Little

It is your birthday and you are not there. I did not bring flowers. See, flowers are for older women; flowers are for forgotten graves. I brought a song, my love. A song I wanted to teach you when I first held you tight. A song I wanted you to hear when your first tooth fell. A song I hoped you would sing with your first kiss, behind the classroom door.
I brought you that song this humid July day, when you were born and when you died, 12 years later. A song I sang when I held you tight, for the last time, before the teary-eyed nurse drew the curtains around your bed.
Say, did you hear me sing it again? Yes, my throat was cloudy; yes, my eyes were wet. But it was your birthday, and I was there.

July 11, 2008