Grieving Someone You've Never Met

I wear some of the clothes that once fit your body. 

Now they don’t quite stretch to your spirit’s frame. 

Do they smell of the scent of you, holding that little girl in your arms? 

You got two years with her. 

So did I. 

Not fair that I got just as much. 

Not fair at all. 

Help me let her move on. 

Help me move on. 

I’ve intimately walked into the life you lived, without you here to tell me if I’m doing an okay job. 

Your soft voice through a screen, 

Your crumbled note tabs on your self-help cancer books, 

The expired blueberry muffin mix box we found yesterday that you made on Sunday mornings, with bacon. 

It’s been an honor, a privilege to hold her when she’s missing you, to hear her talk to you through her toys, her prayer.

••You are still so alive. ••

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How does it sit with you when people call me your mom? I know you’re my babysitter, Mag.