They wrapped the child in plastic and left him by the door.
Blue lips. black fingertips. creeping through the cover.
And the air was still. stale, even. heavy with the sound of hidden gasps and silent prayers from men who wouldn't have believed a god would meddle in this century if it hadn't been for his eyes.
Drawn over three times in loving marker. pupils. iris. lashes.
A maudlin depth for the nameless. unwanted, unintended, unfamiliar dead left for the company of the curious to come and see.
To bury, unmarked, in a lonely grave where his father could come every new year's to lay stolen daisies and weep for all that he could have done had this not been the only way.
Or so he would convince the sinking lines of his face. so he would tell her to this day as if she were there to hold his hand and agree that what they did was right, somehow, in the grand scheme of things.
But we burned the remains.
Her November Diary.mp3