I remember the night she left.Her dress, nightgown, brush. How each quivered in your handswhen you lifted them from a hospital-scented suitcase,replaced hers with mine.A silent drive followed.Me too small to ask questions.You wordless in your guilt. Her cousin’s wife’s sister took me that first time.Held me tight, my heels drumming her skirt, fists beating her arms,while you walked away.Raising a little girl…It wasn’t something you could do.It wasn’t something I allowed you to let go.Every time you handed me off, I believed you back.Sometimes it took months, but you always came. Memories rub like sandget under my skinin my eyes.Your voice still with me,filling a lifetime of hours with…