Every morning
She wakes with a start.

She walks out of her room,
A hunched form in plaid pajamas.

Every morning
A ghost trails her.

The ghost of hope--
And the past.

Every morning
She peeks inside her mother’s room.

She looks with one eye through the crack in the door
Looking for her mother’s cheerful figure, her open arms.

Every morning
She leaves her mother’s room.

After seeing her willowy form
Still laying in bed.

Every morning
She sees her and the ghost disappears.

She will see him again,
When she gasps herself awake tomorrow.

Every morning she curses her father
Over a bowl of Frosted Flakes.

She curses him for leaving her
Through the crunch of her cereal.

Every night
I cry myself to sleep.

I cry because the pain in my chest hurts
Just as much as an open wound.

I cry because the pain can’t be fixed
Because it is inside.

I cry that my Father is dead
And that he has taken my mother with him.