A birthday cake, hand piped flowers dyed pink and blue and green and yellow
Doesn’t matter what year it was. How old you were. It was you. That’s what mattered.
Sitting in the kitchen talking for hours. Feet up on the counter. Drinking a beer or a glass of wine. You and me.
You were the only one who could make a comment about my body and I wouldn’t be offended. You were just noticing. Watching me grow and change. Your daughter.
You’d stare at me. And it annoyed me. But I also stared at you. Taking you in. Wondering about you the way you marveled at me. We marveled at each other.
It’s still so hard. I don’t expect it to ever not be hard.
Fresh as an accidental cut. Quick and bloody every time. Pain. And then calm. Acceptance. Sadness.
I hope you know the impact you’ve had on me. How I feel myself watching my boys the way you watched me. How I try to love as well as you did.
I point to your picture on the fridge. They will know you by god. They will know you in me in the love I give them. In the hugs. Your hugs are one of the things I miss the most. They had healing powers (like you said mine had for you.)
My baby boys sleeps in my arms. How beautiful you would think he is. I appreciate them more because of how you appreciated me.
I accept these cuts. That that’s the way it will be until I ease into the next life. I’m ok with a little blood as long as I remember you so vividly.
