I don’t remember the sound of her laugh,
nor how her eyes lit up, then disappeared,
nor the space where her smiles once lived.
What I remember is how I bawled,
hiding in the room we once shared,
embarrassed of loving.
While she continued
to Sleep,
unimpressed.
What I remember is the day we sent her away.
The church bell tolled
an echo I had never heard before.
Rumors whispered down the aisle.
I told her an inside joke.
Still,
she did not awaken.
What do you mean I will never hear your laugh again?
I searched for her
in photographs,
but they stood still
unmoving.
breathless.
unloving.
Gone
the sharp intake of breath
between laughter.
Gone
the knowing glances
after a joke.
Now, the jokes
in my head
remain undelivered.
But they, too,
are fading.
Josephine May Grace A. Famoso is a literature instructor at the University of Southeastern Philippines, Mindanao. May will always be the dreamer, writer, and poet, among other roles she portrays in real life.