Tears stained the pillow.
Fingers grip the soft fabric tighter.
As if by sheer strength alone, it will keep the memories at bay.
They don’t, by the way.
----
Tires squeal out.
Screams cry out.
A resounding crash echoes through the air around.
Then a calm before the storm.
----
Sobs echoed out past.
Voices tried to comfort.
Hands try to soothe the aches and pains as if they could.
Not when they are gone.
----
The smell of breakfast now.
The morning before.
Laughter. Mirth. Warmth.
Their little voice is asking for attention. Begging.
I smile and tell them, "Not now." Go play outside.
----
Their bed still smells like them.
Their stuffed animals lined up.
In hopes of keeping the bad dreams at bay.
No more tiny voices calling out to me.
----
My heart aches.
Screaming and screaming are my language now.
As the car hisses back.
As it reveals the aftermath of tragedy.
----
Time fades.
Nothing fills the void after they left.
Nothing feels better than feeling everything.
I become a void. Hollowed out—dead weight.
----
Flashes of light.
Blinding me.
Then the smell of crackling bacon.
A little voice calling for me.
This time.
I don’t brush them off.
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