There’s an extra chair in the kitchen
The wood used, smooth and worn
Its cushion pink, her favorite hue
The color of unicorns
Of popsicles and pink lemonade
And the lovely roses
I lay atop her grave.
There’s an extra toothbrush in the bathroom
Its bristles white and frayed
Though I told her not to brush so hard
Lest her gums get scraped.
It doesn’t matter now.
There’s no need for food or drink
If she sleeps beneath the ground.
There’s a candy wrapper on the table
The last thing she ever ate
I would buy them, she would steal them,
And giggle at my livid face.
Sometimes I hated her back then.
Yet I would give a thousand candies
Just to hear her laugh again.
There’s broken glass in the garbage
I threw a cup across the room
In a fit of fury, asking why,
Was she the only flower cut before she could bloom?
Did she do something wrong?
Make a mistake, offend fate?
Or was it my fault, I the culprit all along?
There is a lark that sings at dawn
A bright, beautiful warbling cry
Chirping, eating, running, laughing
Even though eventually, it will die.
A crack in the rocks holds a blossom
Pink petals bloom, the first spring without her
The first of many yet to come.