I can’t count all the stars in the sky
because every time I try I stop to see if I can connect the dots to form something bigger that might have more meaning than
the number I stopped counting on
twenty seven
fourty two
seventy nine
eight
three
two
one
zero
When I was a little girl, my momma would sing me this rhyme
I see the moon and the moon sees me,
God bless the moon and God bless me
we’d look for the big dipper and think up a soup to serve to the man in the moon
I’d serve it to him and look for his smile
he’d tell me he loved it and as I fell asleep
I’d count the stars until Mr. Sandman took me away
Tonight, when I started counting
I thought I could see your face
And what a funny thought to think
because lately I’ve only seen you in dreams
you were sitting on the floor, playing with my clothes like you used to
Remember that?
you’d go through my closet and pull the pieces that I’ve kept around for ages
though they had their time long ago
you pranced around the room with every item on like you were the faerie godmother of the worst dressed
you topped the outfit off with the tutu I wore in my 3rd grade ballet recital
it didn’t matter that I loved that tutu more than anything in the world
or that you looked better in it than I ever did
it didn’t matter that the tutu was the brightest neon orange your eyes ever squinted at
you wore it with pride while I wore it because you told me to
it didn’t matter that at your funeral when everyone else placed their favorite baseball cards and caps in your casket, I plopped the tutu down at your waist
where it belonged
it didn’t matter that I had a fit when your mother said I couldn’t give you my tutu because it wasn’t who you were
it didn’t matter that you couldn’t be buried with it
it didn’t matter then
it won’t matter later
and it still doesn’t matter
because it wasn’t “who you were”
I didn’t care
I never cared because
when you love someone unconditionally
the little things, the big things like
skin colour
face shape
income
hair colour
****** orientation
height
personality
tutu preference
become irrelevant
Twenty seven
the number of times you drunk texted me
Fourty two
the number of times you were forced to watch the Sunday game
Fourty two
the number of times you called me crying about being forced to watch the Sunday game
Seventy nine
the number of times you said
i would be better off dead, yes
Seventy nine
it would be better if I were dead
Eight
the number of hours I spent videochatting with you on Skype trying to convince you not to do it
Three
the number of words in the last text you sent
“I’m done here”
Two
the number of times you said you wished you were straight
Two
the number of times I said I didn’t care that you weren’t
One
the number of tears that slid down your dad’s face at your funeral
Zero
beats missed