I seek you, because I know of no worthier saint to whom I may pray.
Unintentional Mother of Perpetual Discomfort, poetess, help me to not succumb. I live to write, but I am dying for the cause.
I find myself facing the irreconcilable.
When you planned to die, did you consider how your babies, flower bauble cut from your make up bag and given to their cherubic hands, would survive after you had gone?
Was Ted worth the oven?
Imagine the poetry you would have been capable of at the age of 50.
You died on February 11th, same day as my Daddy.
The memory of you, the knowledge of you is enough to plan my next breath, to save me.
There is no coming back.
There is no second chance for the dead.
Sylvia, hear my prayer.