I could not cry that day. After nights
spent sobbing into comfortless pillows
and my father’s thick arms, I could not stir
a single makeshift tear from my eyes.
I remember watching others weep,
dull drops dotting their crimson cheeks,
painting “I loved him best,” in
faux sadness and pain.
I remember wanting to wear my misery on my face,
wanting to pair my pain with that too-short-for-a-funeral
black and pink skirt he would’ve loved.
I remember standing a few feet from that deep brown box
and staring as I pressed my toes toward him,
but not my shoes.
I remember shuffling forward,
brushing my dry lips against his cold, dead head,
knowing he’d rather be kissed by a girl in a short skirt
than cried for.
I remember the cream puff they’d positioned him on
made the whole charade look like an oversized bassinet,
and I remember the strange woman
who slid her arms around my neck.
She whispered four words that were fitting:
Isn’t my baby beautiful?
I agreed.
