By Eliza Callard

She wakes up early to put her face
on for him. Last night, in the dark,
into his shoulder, she shook, convulsed

with silent sobs, wailing
without noise while he held her. This
morning she hops out of bed to jump

in the shower and use her magic wands
to pull, pluck, highlight, and cover.
She will allow him to “sneak” an extra

piece of bacon, despite what they
both know the doctor said, and she will
lift her hand to his face for an extra moment

while he kisses her cheek goodbye. They
will not speak of it, and she believes
his gift is not to remember.