I remember that spring,
and you, with your hands submerged in dirt,
you planted bleeding hearts in your window box,
they never sprouted.
Their large brown bodies barely fit into the box at all.

Your room was a tree house,
wires and branches wrapped around the window,
and the bleeding hearts, the hearts of children,
dead and brown
hung from your window at a broken angle

I remember we buried
your hands,
your cat,
your father,
dreams for people in the future, for the people we might become,
all in the freshly dug earth,
but nothing we buried ever sprouted.