When she changed her hair.

When Adam was born.

Then Anna.

I remember her reading once,

when I came down to throw out the trash.

I remember this one time,

us waiting outside of the school

for Adam to run across the courtyard.

It raining;

overcast,

the car humming.

I remember looking at her

as she tried to spot him by the school gates.

I’d lift my hand to touch her cheek,

and she’d see it, catch it

then push me away.

She’d cry.

I’d lean into the back,

picking up Anna’s bottle

and putting it back in her hands.

I remember the divorce paper

the next morning.

I remember waking up,

going downstairs and her not being there.

I remember when her sister called,

saying she fell that summer.

Then when she fell again in autumn.

I remember the smell of her hospital room.

The brown shelf by the bed side.

The pills which topped it.

And I remember

after spending one night at home with the kids,

finding her bed empty;

then listening to a doctor say she was dead.

And then, I remember again.

The moments.