Eight years and I still can’t remember

the exact day that it happened.

Sometimes I think that makes me a bad person,

a bad mother,

that I can’t remember the day I lost you.

But I remember the season,

and the month – that’s something, right?

And I still mourn you,

like you were ever actually here,

and I actually held you.

I mourn you twice a year actually –

your early departure and your scheduled ETA.

I think it’s better

that I don’t remember

because I can still pretend that I had you

with me longer than I really did.

But I know that day is quickly approaching –

beware the ides of March,

or somewhere around there.

Or maybe it was sooner?

But how much does it matter since you’re not here?

Regardless of the day,

I still lost you and I am still waiting for eternity

to see you again.

At least I named you –

I’m not a completely terrible mother, right?

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