It's August, and I am planning.
I am planning a gift that I don't want to give for a celebration I certainly don't want to celebrate.
I am mourning the loss of a life that she didn't get to live.
Yet gaining a best friend.
It's spring and I am celebrating.
He is here and he is new.
This time will be different.
It is September.
I am mourning again.
We shouldn't be here, losing again.
Planning another gift.
A worthless token that can't bring him back.
And I am empty.
That August and the next September have taken my hope.
Stolen my innocence.
And buried two perfect angels.
Weeks, months. Life carries on.
It has a way of carrying you with it.
Unwilling or willing.
New lives begin.
New beginnings are forged.
It is November and here they are.
Small. Perfect. Smiling.
A constant reminder that terrible occurs,
but healing follows.
Hope perches on your shoulder
and carries you through.
But there are reminders
Harsh and cold
Cruel and true
That leave me here in January
Once again, wondering why.
Why is something so wanted so cruelly taken away?
Why are we made to endure such pain?
It is January and I am broken