I think that’s why life is hard.
When someone dies,
What are we supposed to do with all the love we have for them?
Are we supposed to forget it,
stow it away, in the deepest part of the sea?
Or are we supposed to express it; let it be free?
It comes out of our eyes, it becomes the lump in our throat.
It cries, it screams.
It whispers, it dreams.
Should we be happy, should we be sad?
If the truth be told, I’m kind of mad.
Because your truth dies with them.
So, a little piece of you, too.
And maybe it’s the most beautiful part of you.
Maybe they’re the person who raised you.
Maybe they taught you how to love.
Maybe they’re why you love eggs with ketchup.
Maybe that’s the best life is made of.
You knew the little girl
Smart as a whip. Compassionate, too.
Thank you for giving her the best parts of you.