This is the day when she died.
The morning of December rose as she fell,
And I literally smell the morning vapor.
Her breathing fainted just as the cold water went downhill.
The ground shook and I felt her crack.
That was when we had to lay her down,
Like a dress you just ironed.
A naked being, vulnerable and oppressed.
This is the day when I stood by the doorway.
I saw her looking deep into my eyes,
Like a dog before an owner,
Like an owner before a dog.
She was thinking.
Oh, how I wish I knew what she was thinking.
They came in, just as they were used to do,
Bathed her, clothed her, fed her.
What a lovely sight, seeing my mother and father in a new way,
A way of things that only I could understand.
Because I was robbed of it.
I directed the show she stole.
That was the day when I got tired of it:
Being the one who begged to be begged,
The one who wrote to be written,
The one who loved to be loved.
She was precious and sweet.
A good ally.
I long for her presence, I long for her love.
She was the one who made me more… likable.
She was my guide, my path—my accessory.
That was the day when she woke up suddenly.
I felt her eyes open like an entity travelling by.
She was a silent movie.
She was staring at me.
And I saw it, like droplets on the window.
I saw it, but I did not touch it, running down her ribs and cheeks.
For all the things I can grab,
A towel, a tissue, a blanket to wipe the new river,
I grabbed a pillow.
Gently pushing in, gently, gently.
She was a rock in the river.
But now she is an abandoned statue.
Rusting for a year until I came back to it again,
But never discovered,
For it was gone.
They were devastated.
I was devastated of myself.
Two candles for your grave.