Between Bruises & Blooms

I have almost heard your footsteps
in a hallway full of children.

Almost imagined your laughter
rising above the television,
your voice arguing with your brothers
over something
none of you would remember
by morning.

I have almost bought
the extra Christmas present.

Almost pictured another backpack
leaning crookedly against the wall.

Almost called out five names
when supper was ready,
forgetting, for one merciful second,
that one of my children
cannot come running.

Grief is cruel that way.

It builds a life
inside the smallest word.

Almost.

Almost eleven birthdays
with icing on your cheeks.

Almost eleven years
of learning your favourite things.

Almost a childhood.

Almost a lifetime.

But you were never almost my daughter.

You were never almost here.

I knew you.
I loved you.
I carried you beneath my heart.

And no amount of missing
can make your existence
anything less
than real.