I remember the day you first came home, I held you close to my heart as a smile teased at the corners of your moth. I blinked. I cradle your lifeless body close to my heart in the middle of the street. I try to wash away the dark red drops from the corners of your mouth with my tears. Crying. Shaking. Holding. Camping out back seemed like a good idea until we realized we didn’t know how to set up a tent at all. So we slept in the middle of the yard and looked up at the stars. And I blinked. “NO STOP! PLEASE STOP!” But they keep coming. My words only filled the void of silence. Now your open eyes gaze up at the stars, but I know that you see nothing. Looking. Seeing. Nothing. It was 95 degrees out, weather too hot to bear. So we both got popsicles and sat in the shade. I looked up in the sky and the sun was blinding. I blinked. The moon glows dim where the sun once was. My body has crazy chills, why’d you run? They put a popsicle stick in your mouth, to try and get everything out. Looking. Feeling. Hating. I’m holding onto the back of your seat and running down the street. Your helmet so big and wobble on your head. And than I let go. And your riding on your own. Blink. “MIss you have to back up. You need to leave.” I bury my face deeper in your neck and pull you in closer. I try to make you smaller than an 8 year old should be, small enough to pick you up and carry away with me. Grabbling. Willing. Screaming. You once asked me what happened when people died. I don’t know but I think they go somewhere better. I was so sure. You kick a rock unsure. I blink. Tears scream out of my eyes, and I’m not sure anymore. Right here is a better place. Next to me. Please. Please. Please. Begging. Pleading. You’re bleeding. Your little arms wrapped around my waist. “I love you.” Don’t blink. Don’t blink. Blink.