She was not dressing up for Halloween. She wouldn't be coming shopping with me on Saturday. Her dad didn't have to worry about interrogating a boy at the front door. Her photo album would end at the ridiculous, forced image of us last Christmas-frozen faces, all wondering who this picture was actually for. Her left shoe was untied. Her glasses were broken. I will never read to her. I will never make her tomato soup like I promised. Her room will no longer be her room. Her hair would smell of burned oil and cement. Not lavender. I can't. The last song she sang had the word "shit" in it. My voice was humming in my throat. How? What would I tell her teacher? Was this my fault? Of course it was. I forgot the lunchbox or she would be on the other side of the street with her friend. Her one friend. The one that just watched her die. I would never again be glad I survived giving birth to her. On this day, on the sidewalk I wish with everything inside me that I did not. Gone. Everything in twenty seconds, maybe less.
Do not look at it. The red glow only reminds you that sleep is not coming. toss one more time, I'm sure that is going to make it okay. Try to close your eyes, but they pry themselves open again. Careful, or you may forget that coupon when you go shopping. Did you call so-and-so back? What happens when your son gets too old to have you in his life? Should you really be getting married? The covers stifle you, too hot, too cold, too on, too off. Too much light to sleep, not enough light to make sure you don't trip. "I wonder if I hurt my mom's feelings again today?" "I wonder why I have nothing in common with my family." "What I wouldn't give at this moment to slide into my little, blue abyss for just a few hours and feel young and have no inhibitions and not care if I drank a bottle of red wine and embarrassed myself by phoning you at 3am to talk about how my life doesn't understand me. You know girls like me." Same story every fucking time and too much pity.