Two days before the moving day,
I found a videotape left among other things
in a box, abandoned in the attic.
Pressing play, I watch a young toddler
in a red, flowery dress,
singing with a pink microphone toy,
telling her daddy to also film her audience
of well-gowned teddy bears.
For three minutes, my PTSD stepped aside
and let me remember how that feels.
Before I had to leave
everything behind,
before I knew what death sounds like,
before men perfume meant danger
and songs became heavy memories.
On repeat, I listen to your giggle
again and again. Pause and repeat.
I listen to your voice in desperate obsession,
watching it delve into forgotten layers
in my heart.
For three minutes,
in ten years,
I wasn't grieving.
