Who do you want to forget? 5

Your dad shook my hand,
and held me tight for an odd amount of seconds, the night of your funeral.

It started as a handshake,
his fingers curling around mine, my finger rubbing against his wedding band--
strong arms wrapping around my somber frame,
and he shook me,
as if to wake me.

As if to remind me,
you wouldn't be back; Caroline wails in the background, "It's not right. It shouldn't have mattered."
He sobbed in my freshly oiled hair to thank me for knowing you.

And even though, I knew it would be a closed casket,
the bullet chewing through your skull in closed captioning
I wore a low cut shirt,
to remind you of what you'd never need again.