for Finn
Your father baked you a carrot cake.
I lit a candle, but we didn’t blow it out.
We let it burn by the window for hours.
I picked dahlias and sunflowers.
Arranged them in a mason jar.
We brought them to the cemetery.
Your death is never not hard.
Of course, we cried, sitting in the grass.
The dates on your tombstone never change.
People walking their dogs walked past.
Your dad and I held hands.
We called your sister. We talked to you.
When the sun came out, I sighed.
I had thought I was already softened.
The late warmth softened me more.
Softening, it seems, is its own reward.
When we left, I was so tender with ache
and sweetness, the light, it went right in.
I won’t blow it out. Not ever.