My bedroom is the same,
as one year ago--
darkness mixed with night light
casting static on the walls,
snow-clouds lowering the ceiling,
jets roaring overhead,
delivering night-riders to warm beds.
And I’m lying here next to my son who is one
year older now. I’ve aged a century.
He nestles his head
into the hollow of my armpit.
My husband’s voice drifts from down the hallway
reading The Velveteen Rabbit, our daughter’s favorite.
I catch the blurry words, Fairy she had gone--
My baby sucks his thumb,
at last, rhythmically.
A sigh escapes into blackness.
Squeaking away from the mattress,
tears trace down
my temples, tickling my neck.
One year ago,
she lay in her bed,
not hearing the rain.
Head throbbing, purple
pain pounding out of her skull,
lightning taking a snapshot of misery.
One year ago
we did not know
Even now, it is not clear.
Why our family,
She was forty-three.