Firing up the Canon

Sometimes the past blows in with the breeze. Just the other day while pumping gas I found myself sitting at a table in my safety town class. The air heavy with humidity and the waxy scent of crayon. The sky bright and the breeze heavy. My cotton dress just short of stopping my legs from sticking to the chair underneath me. Then, running outside. Remembering to the point of feeling the pride I had saddling up on the small tricycle I used to navigate the black pavement, around the cones. Carefree and safe and under the sun. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Oh, to feel that safe again.

You slipped away sometime between a dream and a nightmare. I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar hollow, rolled over and cradled the home we had made together. And then it all felt different. I couldn’t look people in the eye. I couldn’t feel you inside. Goodbye silently began before the first drop of loss. And yet I still carried you with me and prayed you’d stay. But not this way. Not without a heartbeat. Not without a chance. And if I did something wrong, I’m sorry. I loved you from a place deeper within me than where you began. I imagined your sweet face, the soft of your feet, the warmth of your tiny breaths. And I lost mine when you faded back inside. You are the piece of me that died. The heartache I cannot hide. Baby mine.