I remember the rain pounding the door

then punishing the pavement,

as though trying to cleanse the earth of her sins.

I remember the daisies by the living room window,

their petals pressed to the glass

as if desperately seeking the warmth of the sun.

I remember the vase that dropped from my hand,

then crashed to the floor –

the blood that dripped from my finger onto

the tile as I scraped up the pieces.

I wonder what, if anything haunts your memories

or tortures your soul.

But, then, you were always so sure –

always so justified.

And although these demons occasionally resurface,

I know that I am the fortunate one –

able to look them straight in the eye –

not ignoring their existence –

nor trying to place the blame.