In bed my mind slipped
back to the day before Cherish’s funeral.
It was going to be a
closed casket.
I needed to see her face
again.
I need to look into that
face, and tell her I was sorry.
I had snuck into the
funeral home late that night.
I had found her, already
nestled in her coffin.
They had cleaned her up,
but it hadn’t helped.
Her neck was purple and
bruised.
It seemed cocked at an
odd angle.
Her face, her beautiful,
innocent face, was bloated, the tongue hanging heavy out of her mouth.
They had yet to sow her
eyes shut, and I could see that where there had once been whites, it was now a
vibrant red.
I fell to my knees in
front of that coffin.
I wept. I begged her to forgive me.
I cried for her to come
back.
Who knew that fifteen
years later my prayers would be answered?
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