They bake a cake every year and we celebrate you.
They know your name
and they know how old you would have been
this year.
They don't know about the aching
that creeps into my arms in the night
still. After all this time.
And they don't know about your small box of things -
all that remains to touch and smell and weep over
still. After all this time.
They saw me once, kneeling by your tree
laying sweet scented flowers down for you
and they came too
kneeling by you as I do.
We sat there, silent,
all of us together
until dusk began to descend
when it was time to leave you
alone again.
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