She tricycles down the road
Pigtails and streamers
Flying behind her.
Tiny legs pumping hard
Taking her to the end
Of the neighbor’s driveway
Before she collapses of
Pure exhaustion.
She paints a portrait of her family
That looks more like purple, blue
And red spiders with huge heads.
Everyone is there: Mom, Dad,
Lucas, and Spot.
She plays dress up with Mom’s
Black pumps and red
Lingerie and mauve
Lipstick pretending to be
Sixteen years old when finally
She is there and she realizes
That make up isn’t all its
Cracked up to be.

I am an umbrella.
The cold rain has soaked my hair and
I can hear thunder in the distance.
I see the lightening strike the maple
Trees of Connecticut and
I can taste the garlic from my lunch,
Still on my tongue,
Three hours later.
My brain is fuzzing.  The smell
Of gasoline permeates my nostrils
Like fresh baked cookies.

And I remember.
The car flipping, taillights over headlights.
Me in the front seat.  We landed
In the ravine and sunk to the bottom
And here I am.

I walk across the busy highway
And reach the divider where
I find them.
I reach for the flowers and
They smell like rainbows.
Blythe, a moldy card reads,
Take care in the afterlife.
I place another next to it
From me that reads,
You will be sorely missed
Hasta luego.

I walk back across the highway
Headlights staring into my eyes
And open the front door of my car
To drive away.  Moving on
Makes the pain go away and
If you forget, no one remembers
But I will until you come home.

I called the ending to this story, you know.
After all, I am an author derived from you.
The love, then betrayal.  As if I wouldn’t understand it
All on my own.  So I knew what the last page said
Before you read it to me.  And you lied.
You pretend the hard covers keep in your secrets
And hide your past but now even I know better than to be fooled.  
Every movement you make flips the pages
Right back to where we started.  All over again.
Back to the beginning of this section until I know it by heart.  
And I raise the question, how do we end it?  
How do we begin to end it?  We get close with forewords
And bookmarks.  And even closer with anecdotes
And dedications.  But I need more.  No more action novels.  
No more thrillers, romance, sob stories or fantasies.
I need non-fiction.  Real words.  Real feelings.
Real people.

Signed,
The Daughter You’re Losing