I know you didn’t die. This act of yours was not about denial, when it helped, when it hurt. I know when you did it God shed a tear. Getting ready for the service, uncertain of wearing a pair of brand-new saddle shoes. The other way to feel your life fulfilled was to make it look like death; a feeling that was so identical to the yellow collared mod dress she used to wear. The one you could remember in the picture, sitting on a bench with you and your sister, smiling you both to your mother in the park: it was how you spent your warmly familiar Sundays when you were ten. Then the age grew old, as well as your thoughts, and all the things appeared to be misleading, deceitful, receding from the scene. It seemed like the picture had no frame, and your mother took no space, and you knew how colors fade, when the light is too strong.