The nurse asked if I wanted to see you.
 
I said yes. 
 
She wheeled you next to my hospital bed.
 
Sherry and Wendy, 
 
swaddled in striped, pastel blankets,
 
born Oct. 3, 1984.
 
Your eyes were closed.
 
You were motionless. 
 
Your lips were blue. 
 
Do you want to hold them?
 
I said no.
 
I just couldn’t do it. 
 
Do you want a picture?
 
I said yes. 
 
She pointed, clicked,
 
waved the picture to dry,
 
then handed it to me.
 
What an awful picture.
 
One I’ll never forget.
 
She asked about a memorial service.
 
I said no. 
 
My parents never took me to church,
 
and I was mad at God.
 
Then she wheeled you away.
 
Forgive me
 
for allowing you 
 
to be 
 
cut open 
 
and burned.
 
I eventually threw out 
 
your lifeless Polaroid
 
and your little 
 
plastic armbands 
 
with Sherry 
 
and Wendy 
 
written on them.
 
But I kept your boxed ashes –
 
move after move,
 
house after house. 
 
I kept your ashes 
 
in my closets 
 
for so many years
 
because I would have 
 
nothing left of you
 
if I let you go.
 
Four years ago,
 
I finally 
 
released your ashes
 
in a pond near me,
 
a pond where my son 
 
and grandsons 
 
now fish.