I wrote this poem last night, it seemed like it was worthy enough of slapping on my part of our page.

What could I have done wrong?
Why is her body poised
With raging malignant anger?
Is she truly mad at me,
Or is she mad at herself,
For what went on that
Dreadful night.
For what happened when
The gun fired, the dinner
Spilling down the sides of the stove.
The helpless anger rushing through
Her, and me as we lost all we had,
Lost in the time it takes,
For the gun to go off.
She shouldn't blame herself,
Or anyone for that matter.
It was something we couldn't have foreseen,
The ghost of Christmas yet to come.