CATHERINE STANSFIELD

I expected something
different. It should have
rained perhaps—enough so
that any tears would seem
like a spray of salt
on the face of the ocean.
Instead, the only dampness
was the condensation
on my iced coffee cup.

It should have been different,
when I went to visit your grave,
grit grinding between my teeth
dust settling inside my lungs,
but it was caramel all the way down.

I did expect the silent sky
as I looked up and forgave Him
for not restarting your heart
and for not giving me an
answer as to why someone
so young ends up soaring