June

When I think of summer, I think of you, June.

Walking barefoot, giving energy to the sun, looking only ahead.

Eating melting vanilla ice cream, building dreams on sand dunes,

Collecting the broken sand dollars – they still feel pain, you said.

Then you took off to summer camp, promising to be good.

You made snow angels in sand, leaving tangled messy hair.

You giggled and played, like a seven-year-old should.

You made shimmering crafts, leaving a mess of glitter everywhere.

Then I got the call, they said you were dead.

I was walking alone, holding a broken sand dollar.

At night they went to bed, you went swimming instead.

Sunlight disappeared, clouds gathered, and the waves gave a holler.

But what could a mother who buried her child say?

You skipped to eternal summer, and I could only pray.