She lets him dress her, at last.

Her limbs move with uncertainty, but the taller figure is patient. Always patient, when it comes to her.

He guides her arms into soft white lace. The dress lies gently on her ribs. His gloved fingers adjust the collar, tugging the pink bow at her throat into a perfect knot.

The little bell dangles beneath it, but makes no sound—
he quieted it long ago, preferring the sight of it to the chime.

When he finishes, he doesn’t step away. Instead, he cups her face and kisses her forehead.

“There you are.”
As if she had been missing.

I eat from a white bowl.
I don’t know where the strawberries come from.

Sometimes Mom quietly cuts them for me
at three in the morning,
when she’s getting ready for work
and I’ve stayed up all night, never explaining why.

Sometimes I eat them with Dad
at a Denny’s near the highway,
after spending the day at a gun show.
They’re fresh, getting away from the smoke and noise.

Sometimes I imagine eating strawberries
with my guardian angel
at no set hour, in no particular place,
because I believe that heaven comes
from strawberries in a white bowl.