The more I stare at your picture,
the less I remember your face. 
The lines don’t match up–
like a map
that’s a little outdated.

I used to think
you’d live forever,
and when that dark day came,
I committed your casket to memory
and the dress you were wearing
and the little bag they gave us
with pieces of you
that will never be whole 
again.

It felt like a concentration camp.
“Take the shoes,
they don’t need them anymore.”
Does death look different
on a child’s face?

“Take the jacket,
the cold can’t nip at them.”
Or am I just
remembering it wrong?

I go back to that map
trying to retrace my steps
and find out
where it all went wrong.

Was it Christmas Eve,
when I wanted
nothing more
to do with you?
Or was it 4 a.m.
when you were vomiting
into a McDonald’s bag
and I was rolling my eyes
because it sounded fake?

What about the times
when name-calling
was funny?
When it was okay
to laugh
and joke
and pick?
What did I know?
I was a child.
I am a child.

I am a child
cleaning up
feces
and refuse
and staring 
at some
godforsaken picture
that 
doesn’t.
even.
look.
like you.