The girl whose parents were shot
in a mass shooting at the local mall
grows up with a hole inside her
where their love would have been.
For a long time, she had a memory
the size of an eyelash, a feel
in the palm of her hand, the heft
of her mother’s hand in hers.
But it was so light it was blown
away, farther from her than
the color of their eyes, which
she also can’t recall unless
she pulls out the photo of them
that she keeps tucked inside
a Bible. On nights she wants
to remember more, she dreams
of a locked door that people
keep trying to convince her
will only open if she uses a gun
to shoot out the lock. But she refuses.