I put the baby in the stroller every week
so she can see her mother
not a body,
but a tree slowly growing above the headstone,
it's branches stretching and crackling in the breeze.
The baby looks at the tree and coos, because she can still smell
her perfume settled on the leaves,
the leaves that rustle
and barely cover her whispered laugh.
The first week it started raining, so I couldn't see her tears,
and she couldn't see mine,
rolling down, down, back to the earth.
I put this baby in the stroller every week
to visit her mother,
knowing she hasn't let her go.