In a moment, you were here;
you weighed two pounds, and could fit in one hand; you grew, and suddenly
had arms that moved just like your mother’s, and could throw a glance
just like your father –
This is what we don’t talk about, but we remember – you wanted to go to UC Davis
and be a veterinarian.
You loved to play basketball, and, like any good auntie would do,
I was teaching you my favorite sport – shopping, what else?
Once, we were out, and you said you were looking for size zero;
I said we would need to go to the invisible clothing section.
That made you laugh, and your laugh made me happy.
We lost your mother when you were seven, in the same hospital where you were born, and
you did the thing that sad girls do; you got up, and went to school, and kept the big pain inside.
When your dad was still alive, the three of us would go to bookstores in the afternoon and read –
No way for you to escape the love of books; your parents and I were smitten with reading, and you would be, too.
Then, in a moment, your dad was gone, and we both walked around with more holes in our hearts.
And three years later, in a moment, you were gone, too.
In a hospital, in L.A., in a moment, with one wrong move, you were gone, too.
A slice of life in a moment – and we are left here,
and we sew the shreds together, but the seams can still be seen.