My footsteps echoed down the hall
reverberating through the walls—
the constant clack of pointed heels
on the polished tiles made me feel like her,
like a grown-up
with red lipstick and a string of pearls
strung not carelessly, but delicately
around the neck.

She's wasn't there yet; she must have been running late.
My palms were sweaty, my fingers twisting,
itching to disentangle from his vise.
But he wouldn't let go.
He clung on; if he dared loosen his grip,
I would disappear into nothingness.

He looked like a silent movie star in his suit and tie,
coal-colored like the blacks of his eyes,
but even I, from down below,
saw the grave look
that lurked behind his stoic stare.


A picture of her as a young girl was on the wall,
her hair curled, ringlets tied back
with a single blue ribbon.
"You look just like her," he sighed
with a squeeze of my hand.

The room was open, lined with
white lilies and a bit too bright
like the gates of Heaven.
The oak box loomed at the head,
open and ready to be explored.
My feet shuffled closer,
hand leaving his,
half-inch heels still clicking like hers.

As I peered over, my nose at the brim,
my breath grew stunted as I gazed,
motionless, into the ivory-lined chest.
It was a face, pallid and still.
I looked just like her.