I remember the car ride to the funeral.
My mom cried in the car
and held my hand as we walked to the church.
My mom never held my hand.
After the service, my mom cried in the car
while children outside laughed as they danced under the autumnal sky.
My mom never held my hand
but she gripped mine that day as we drove to their house.
I glared at the children, laughing as they plunged into piles of crimson leaves.
Why did they not understand how miserable today was?
My mom clung to my hand as we drove away from their house.
I remember her crying as she cooked lunch.
Why was the world blind to how miserable today was?
Anderson Cooper laughed on the television,
unaware of the boy who lost his mother.
I remember my mom crying as she cooked spaghetti.
We sat in silence, crying.