tears like this come twice a year.

it is in your white dandelion hair, your unusually handsome features, the look on your face when you cushioned me from that blade, a firm, quiet plea for the brutality to stop. it is in the beauty of losing your birth date at war. it is in holding your hand, slow walks. it is in being your baby grandchild. it tells me never to be anything bad, vain, rude. for many reasons—none enough—i miss you

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