by Mónica Hutchens Tipton
When
December comes,
I take out the ornaments
and the stockings that have
our names embroidered on them:
Dana, Kate, Monica, Jeff. I gently turn
the baubles that say “Our First Christmas”
and “We love you so much, Dana and Kate.”
I reread all the messages sent seven years ago,
the ones that were so full of hope and love. I read
the ones written in the days after he died, and I find
I don’t cry any more. The girls’ birthdays are in December;
those days should be their days, instead they remind me of him.
The cavern in my soul still exists
even though
it has been
six Decembers.
No comments:
Post a Comment
What's your observation?