My baby girl is gone. Nestled in a box under dirt and rock. Planted under a myrtle that will bloom lavender petals.
Her body is in pieces, but I picture her whole; else I lose myself in fits of tears and rage, desperate to claw the earth till a space is carved out next to her.
All I have is the memory of her moving and dreams of her feet
matching the rythm of her brother's steps
down hallways and stairs and wooded paths to the ravine,
and christmas card photos with her sandwiched between brothers on the fireplace hearth,
and a pink bike racing down the driveway,
and dark hair and light eyes and a sweetness like one brother and a sassy mouth like another,
and shin guards and lessons about Mia,
and nail polish and earings and tights and dates with her daddy,
and skinned knees bandaged with wonder woman band-aids,
and shopping trips,
and a potty buddy on camping trips,
and a friendship like I have with her nana,
and her- just her in my arms that ache for her so badly that sometimes I can not breathe.
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