was a day of cold, raw silence.

I will always remember exactly what I was doing

when mom called home from the hospital.

Fourteen years have passed and gone,

but I still recall every detail of that day:

How we cleaned the house the night before,

How my mom's voice sounded on the phone,

Daddy's stunned response,

Grandma's tearful reaction when I went to wake her up.

I remember the song I listened to after,

The melted candles that burnt my fingers,

The smell of incense in the air,

The white flowers wilting in the heat,

Your initials etched onto the casket.

The exact moment they brought you back home,

I was standing at the top of the stairs.

Watching as they carried you.

You looked different,

strange.

The crying,

The weeping.