And sometimeswhen she does remember,she calls me her little angeland she knows where she isand everything is all rightfor a second or a minuteand then we cry;she for the life that she lostI for the woman I only know about through the stories of her children.

She rode toward the sunsetin her fathers worn down car.A breeze picked up strands of her hairthrough the open windowwhile a cigarette burned between her lips.He told her stories of honey and milkas he replaced the grass with mud.