Nov 1
i took your socks.
i don't remember if you wore shoes—
but just before they took you,
i took your socks.
i don't know why.
you didn't need them,
but i regretted it instantly.
later i bought you new socks:
long, cable-knit ones to keep you cozy.
to keep you warm.
i'll never forget.
i don't remember if you wore shoes—
but just before they took you,
i took your socks.
i don't know why.
you didn't need them,
but i regretted it instantly.
later i bought you new socks:
long, cable-knit ones to keep you cozy.
to keep you warm.
i'll never forget.
it's november, and i'm crying again—
not that i ever truly stopped.
your birthday is this month,
the first one without you.
as if thanksgiving weren't enough,
it'll mark a year since you left.
i miss you, mom.
not that i ever truly stopped.
your birthday is this month,
the first one without you.
as if thanksgiving weren't enough,
it'll mark a year since you left.
i miss you, mom.
