Three months ago.
Would have been 32 weeks.
You would be arriving (early)
...this month.
It was a good dream at the time.

Instead, your burned little body sits on the fireplace
in a brick I long to smash through a window.
No one would know why.
I don't think they remember.
I barely remember.

All that's left of you
...the only proof you were here at all.
Life is so normal
I must be over it.
I'm trying.
Hiding.
Pretending.
Mostly.
But not today.
Not this month...

...when you were supposed to arrive.