Beatrice's face is superimposed over every thought I have.  Every thought I see through the watermark of her still face.  I might be looking at you, but I'm not really, its only her face I see.


I flashback to that day we lost her, mostly at night before I fall asleep, moments and voices, fragmented and out of order.  The weeping of my father as he held her for the first and last time; the rock of my childhood, breaking.  My mother looking at her as she does what only comes naturally when you hold a newborn baby, rocking her gently from side to side.  Then to my youngest sister's face before the memorial, the tears free flowing down her cheeks as if she was in the rain without an umbrella.  Imagining my brother's face, not knowing what to say.  Another sister gazing at Beatrice's photo with such love on her face, drinking every detail.  I feel the hands of my other sister, squeezing my own, trying to give me what strength she can, even as she shakes with her own tears. 


I see you, Beatrice.  In my mind, I do see you... as you were, as you will yet be. 
And I do so long to hold you.