IF THEY HAD TOLD ME
If they had told me that today would be the last time I would push your swing,
or lift you to something out of reach,
or tuck you back in,
or hold your hand to cross the road,
or sing you to sleep,
or kiss it better,
or read your bedtime story,
then I would have circled the date on the calendar, and surrounded it with red stars and exclamation marks.
I would have set an alarm, and shouted to the world upon waking that today was the day.
I would have planned my week, my month, my year, all around that one moment; all around that one undiluted pinprick of light.
But they did not tell me, and I cannot unpick it now.
It is not lost, but hidden; obscured by the whole; stitched and woven into the blanket of memory, and time.