in a dark room

[Heartafire]

It was my eighth birthday.
She did not come to the table.
I carried cake to her room on a paper plate.
Her beloved tapestry hung heavy,
shutting out the light.
She was accustomed to the dark.

I didn’t sit with her those days,
her cries of pain frightened me.
My small shoulders needed her touch
but I could not endure her suffering.
My smile would lift the corners of her lips,
she would then drift away.

In the photograph I am wearing a new dress.
I adored its lacy bodice and satin sash.
Father picked it out himself.
Later, my grown up eyes dissolved
in the pain of his etched face,
our photo with an empty space,
dying in a darkened room.