I held confetti how I used to hold your finger when your arms were my loom, a hundred burials ago. Your groom smile greeting, killed me. It killed your little girl. Making me bury you on your wedding day, with a nine year old girl and her brother that you once held like her, and now unfurled, as daughters confetti. I held my husband how you used to grip my finger and I cry in his arms how I did in yours a hundred burials ago.