MOTHER'S DAY, 2013

“Why is that little girl so sad, mama?”

My heart stopped.

Your tiny hand pointed to the stairs,

At nothing.

He came out from the kitchen,

Our eyes bounced between each other

And the empty staircase,

That held everything we needed.

That moment, now a memory

Burned into my mind.

A gift - much like the pottery 

And homemade cards I have tucked away.

We stood, frozen:

Minds racing, questions flowing.

We didn’t want to alert you

To the emptiness of the stairs.

I asked you

“How old is she, baby?’

“Three,” you state, matter-of-factly.

And then, as if corrected in real time,

“Four. She’s going to be four.”