—What did you tell them in the end?
—In the end what can one ever say except goodbye, god be with, live long and prosper. Every cliche I could conjure from my throbbing pulsating pain-filled brain.
—They held your hands.
—One on each side, yes.
—I imagine both of them remained till the end.
—Left and right of me, yes.
—They knew you when.
— Yes they did. And they knew me well.
—Let me finish. They knew you when their brains were raw, when new roads were still spongy black asphalt drying in the sun. The constant rumble of concrete mixers made their little feet tremble.
—And the vibrations shook their tiny hearts in the heat.
—Shaking baking baby hearts.
—Yes.
— After their mother died you sang to them a silly song about dropping the moon on your foot.
— More groundwork. Yes. Another simple foundation built to last.
— They thought you were amazing.
—One night with no moon we collected fireflies in a jar and I set the jar on a fence post, then we walked thirty-paces holding hands with our backs turned before I spun them around and told them look, see, this is what memories look like.
—Think they’ll recall that night when they’re older?
—No doubt they’ll remember it forever.
—Babies.
—Yes. Yes they were.
*
(For Little Miss Monka & Mister Big)
