My dad wants to remember my name,

so he goes to my grave,

wipes the dirt from my headstone,

and reads it again and again

until he cannot forget.

I have never been still.

Inside the casket, I gasp,

clawing at the elm lid,

tears pooling, louder

than my wails—

a child’s first cry

cradled by the dark.

I reach for him,

but I’m too buried,

and he’s too busy—

busy remembering me.

I just wish he could

have done that when I

was alive.