my wife still has the photo album,
the embroidered "Tracy" on the cover.
the first page filled with pictures of our daughter,
barely ten pounds in weight.
she was our first,
but not our last.
she came to us with smiles,
and left the world crying.
late at night i wonder,
what could an infant think before death?
i think - fear, or worry?
disappointment with her parents?
no - surely not - an infant couldn't think that.
over eighty blank pages are in the album,
each with a theme now destroyed:
birthdays, Halloweens, vacations.
i imagine her as a little ghost,
in the third or fourth grade,
holding a small orange pumpkin pail,
but not really dead - surely not really dead.
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