This one memory of you,
The one I know for sure is mine,
Not a second hand memory.

I was too small to see by myself,
So I stepped up on the mossy kneeler.
The coffee-brown curls of your hair gleamed red-gold in the light,
Just like mine do.
Your shirt made a blue-silk heart
In the opening of your white dress coat.
Your hands were folded, fragile and still.
And your face,
It is as clear in my mind as my own.
The skin translucent blue,
Pink powder marked out your cheeks
Like fine china and rose petals.
I reached out to touch you,
Standing on tiptoe.

But I have forgotten what it felt like.