The day she made blueberry pancakes
I spilled blueberry juice on my shirt
and it left one, small dot
just above my bellybutton
that looked like a cerulean moon.
She laughed the way she usually did,
silent with her eyes squinting,
and I thought back to the years
that we would come home from school
and have a peanut butter snack
waiting on the table for us.
I saved her letters in the ceramic vase
that she made and hated
and they are crinkled and worn
and the pencil is fading away,
slowly becoming light smudges of ash.
I know that in the summer
the ride was scary
and that in the end
her necklace hung from the side mirror,
swaying back and forth in smooth motions.
I don’t regret the blueberry stain
because it reminds me of breakfast
which then makes me think
about the day it happened,
and I’m happy her last meal
was chocolate chip pancakes
with syrup drizzling down the sides
in languid, amber movements
because it’s a good meal
and a delicious one at that.