Death is Harsh

Prose regarding death of a sister

Death is Harsh

Death is harsh.
Its brutality is in its finality.

Each morning begins with the hope
That this is a bad dream.
By the time my feet touch the floor
I remember.

She is still dead.

She was yesterday, she will be tomorrow
And today,
Today,
Today
Is spent smelling her perfume
Hearing her laughter
Feeling her heartbeat

The cherry blossoms mock me
Pink was her favorite color, they laugh
As the wind whips them into a frenzy
The petals hold on,
I wait for them
To fall to the ground in a heap
But they are stubborn

Just wait, I cry out to them,
You won’t always be so alive
I will be here in the fall
When the last of you plummets to the ground
I’ll watch
And I will remember you laughed

And she will still be dead