© Makayla Lagerman, MSI
Who was the last one to hold these hands–
With nails freshly painted purple–
that knew her name?
Her favorite kind of birthday cake?
The funny way her feet turned out as she walked?
Who helped her pick out this magenta,
Never thinking of it as a color that complements
The simple manila toe tag.
Now, I will be the last to hold her hand,
the purple polish still unchipped.
I do not know her name,
The song that played for her first dance,
Whether she ordered a burger medium rare or without pickles,
The first address she could memorize,
Or the dreams she once held dear.
It is not lost on me that this heart I know so intimately, I do not know nearly at all.
I do not know who last held these hands, nails freshly painted purple.
I wonder if a memory of her danced into their mind today.
I do not know what tragedies or commercials or sweet promises made her pull her hands to her chest, or how her laugh rang out and for which kind of jokes.
I do not know if she had regrets.
Do most of us?
And yet I know with full certainty that in life, she chose death to be a gift,
And so perhaps,
beyond just the sight of it,
I know her heart after all.