At the end of the countdown,
I may or may not have taken off.

I was not the kid that played fetch with her dog.
You never saw the point in it.
I watched you in your reflection,
as you turned to me,
when I entered your view.

Watched your neck snap,
back and forth,
when you saw the TeleTubbies on TV,
chewing on your ripped red teletoy.

You trained us,
herded us covertly.
Demanded permission
to jump on the couch.

Toilet paper shreds littered the hallways.
I liked surprise feet fuzziness,
because they were yours.

Nobody liked you at first.
But when they came around,
which they always did,
they loved you harder than anything.

A soft secret,
you were perfect to me,
when you wanted to be.

I missed you so much.

We have new babies now.
We see you in them every day.

So why can't I remember you?

I still cry at times,
because I had never seen death be so horrible to something so good.

I still cry when I think of you,
not because I miss you,
but because I can't remember what you felt like anymore.