She fits inside a shoebox—
A mourning card, a birthday card,
a cartoon on a napkin.
A wire bra, a notepad,
her photo softly smiling.

Now she is a voicemail
Now she is a song
Now she is a twinkling star
guiding us all home.

Will I, too, fit inside a box—
with no name written on it,
closed with a yellow rubber band,
sitting atop the closet?