it would be the greatest tragedy to forget
the way the tub of shea butter by your sink
melted into your hands every morning

the way your wigs in every shade and style
would sit in your closet in a pile
and you would choose your character for the day
to match your lipstick with a hat so grand
everyone at church would ask for its maker

you would smile and shrug
knowing full well as i did that
its maker would never be known
and every yard sale hand-me-down
older than me would outlive you

it's why i couldn't come close to you that day
and i will forever be sorry
to see those shea butter hands
lifeless and frozen
and you wearing a wig i knew would never be changed
and a stranger's soft smile colored outside of your rainbow

forgive me for not recognizing you
or myself in my sadness
both of us trapped in a casket
only illusioned to be open