Wicked, say some.
All, really.
Closed-door tact hides opinions.
Wicked.
Also father. Brother. Son. Husband.

No.
Not that.
Not after that time.
Not after the hot boy with the red dress and the office party.
Nineteen, but still a boy, really.
A boy wearing dresses and taking hormones and still not really sure if he wants to be a girl.
(He does.)

But still she mourned.
Still she loved him.
Standing, still with her sons, she lays a rose.
She cries.
Sad tears.
Glad tears.
Finally-it's-over-and-I-can-move-on tears.
No more wondering.  No more wist.
No picking up the phone to call and staring at the screen for ten minutes before putting it down and dying.
But only a little.

But not now.
Gone was her love.
Gone is her love.
A step, a rope, a final dance before she's still, and now--
Gone as her love.