We hit the closet on our way out,
cloak ourselves in Mom’s jackets, big shoulder pads,
April in cheetah print,
me in shiny coral,
grab umbrellas, huge purses.
See Four Weddings and a Funeral,
expecting more laughs than tears,
eat peanut M&M’s,
popcorn,
drink Cherry Cokes.
We laugh until we cry
and my heart gets that stony feeling—
not knowing the death would be from AIDS.
On the walk home,
April says even if Dad lives
longer than we thought,
I’ll still be leaving.
Guilt rolls in
thick like fog.
I swallow hard,
keep in my cry,
point to purple and yellow crocuses,
poking their heads out around a
concrete-imprisoned tree.
I tell her not to worry,
she can come visit me—
and I tell her a story of
two city girls picking flowers under a starry country sky.