I, who dug the grave.
It was I who wrapped you in the blanket and took you on that fateful drive.
I, who delivered you to your death.
It was I, who discussed your destiny as you sat patiently in my arms…trusting me as always…without question or a doubt.
I, you tried to console with your wet kisses as I wept.
It was I, who supposedly did the right thing. Many say it was a favor to you. Your suffering was over and I did it out of love.
But, did I?
I’m not so sure.
I am the one who suffers now.
It is I, who avoids the windows, afraid to look out to the edge of the lawn, where the magnificent Magnolia stands guard over you…buried in a rain soaked hole, probably frozen now in your little box, all alone out there in the brutal January cold.
I’m told your struggle is over and you are at peace.
But if that’s true, then why do I weep? And why does my head not comfort my heart?
Why won’t the memory of the light fading from your eyes cease to torture me daily?
It was I who made the choice.
I, who must live with that truth.
Forgive me, I beg of you.
Forgive me, please.