They shoot seven rifles
three times
and every time it crashes against
your soul like a defibrillator
reminding your heart that it is
meant to be alive.
One.
My mama told me stories of the day I was born
and they always started with his arms
or his shoulders
because it was hard to separate me from either.
Two.
When I was a toddler I left a violet
crayon in his red pick up truck we called
“Beast” and I cried because I thought I had
ruined everything
but he took my hand and told me that
purple suited Beast quite well.
Three.
When I was five my bike broke
but all my cousins had one and they
wouldn’t take turns,
so he scooped me up,
took me to Walmart’s bike aisle
and told me to take my pick
and in one moment I went from the
kid left out
to the kid loved in.
Four.
He wrote me letters
every Valentine’s day
in scrawling handwriting
that started with “My Princess,”
and ended with
“your daddy sure loves you.”
Five.
When my uncle got married,
we went to David’s Bridal to
choose my flower girl dress
and I remember how he saw me at
7 and 27 through bittersweet eyes,
simultaneously his
and someone else’s.
Six.
When I got pneumonia
and he knew I was contagious,
he did not deny my pleas
to cuddle up with his
grandmother’s soft, pink quilt
and watch old musicals.
Seven.
The last picture we took together
he pulled me against his chest
and smiled because he still knew me,
he always knew me
and he brought me back to the shoulders
and the arms that first ushered
me through this Earth.
There is something about the clarity
of grief
and the crispness of a flag,
realizing exactly why one is hurting.
It’s not always so certain.
But, sometimes,
it is.
Sometimes, it’s so plain it hurts.
It is a casket for your father and the
shots that mean it’s over,
and oak,
bones, and gunfire
are pretty sure.