To an Alice that could've been: I toy with the idea of future memories, contingent to past moments. Let's pretend it fades in from white. Now, there she is, summer dress flopping up and down on the trampoline like the opening and closing of a sunflower umbrella. She is a chronic smiler. And when her mouth isn't smiling, you can bet her eyes surely are. Or maybe her 4-year-old dimples. Anyhow, you can always be sure to find it buried in some characteristic of that face so round from laughing and so familiar to her mother. She charms, she brings joy, she shows the love of love. She makes the moon shine and my sun rise.
To a Dakota that could've been: The fading once again comes to clarity. There he is. In some statement of fashion not yet fit for an eighth grader. He doesn't care. He would if his father didn't wear it. Look at him: screaming at his mom for space, for some angsty, undefined sense of freedom and individuality. He's inherited more than the tie clip.
To a Becca that could've been: You always were and always will be. There is no fading for you, only a dramatic finish: the curtains meet in the middle and sway for a few seconds while the audience continues to clap, continues to cry, continues to wait for another Act. There is doubt to whether or not the lights will return or whether the curtains will open again, accompanied by such fanfare as to be sublime.
To a Darko that could've been: Don't wait for me, please. You can truly be fulfilled without me in your life. Don't wait to grow your hair out. Don't wait to try acid for the first time. I won't be there to hold your hand, I won't be there to physically hurt you when you make me feel worthless as a parent, and I surely won't be there when you see your mom cry for the first time. You'll cry too. And I'll know why.
Make me proud, Dakota.
Make me smile, Alice.
Make me remember, Becca.
Make her happy, Darko.