I wanted to plop backwards in the
snow and wave my arms and legs
up and down, making a snow angel
next to you. I wanted to read Where the Wild Things Are
with a flashlight under a blanket fort with
you. To run with you through a
meadow, picking every dandelion,
blowing seeds in the wind.
I wanted to jump the waves, holding
your hand, while we looked for sand
dollars together. Instead, there was
blood, and somebody must have yanked
the bones from my body because I
crumpled into a lifeless heap of flesh on
the linoleum floor. I only hope
to meet you one day. I swear
I smell baby powder.
And a friend left flowers on the porch.
About the Author
Betsy Littrell is a whimsical soccer mom to four boys, working on her MFA in creative writing at San Diego State University. Her recent publications include The Write Launch and The Road Not Taken. In addition, she is a journalist at KGTV and volunteers with Poetic Youth, teaching poetry to underserved elementary students.