Along the island’s shore lay the remnants of the ships debris.

The salty air from the ocean breeze fills my lungs and burns deep.

My eyes squint at the dominant sun, and my skin sizzles from the blistering heat.

 My hands filter through the gritty sand, searching for something so dear, something so petite.

It’s the last thing that was given to me by someone I once knew. It’s something I was given before I grew.

Something so thin and frail weighs in my heart: the size of Pinocchio’s tall tales.

It is colored pale pink with a tiny grey elephant dancing around with a bow on its tail.

A card on my birthday to remind me of yet another reason why I live to see another season.

Inside are feelings that have been written. Sometimes I think, “She’s my aunt, so it’s a given”.

Now that I’m older, I realize what was really meant as this card was being stained with tears and ink.

My fingers trace the worn edges, and my face becomes stained with black sorrow.

I feel almost as if Poe’s Raven is sitting on my shoulder, spouting, “Nevermore”.

A hidden goodbye in, a birthday card for a small girl with not yet the mind of a woman.

How was I to know what to feel from a small paragraph that had been written?

People jeer at me when I tell them all I need is a card to get by, and I cry.

If they only knew why. Maybe then they could see I need nothing more.

Reading this card reminds me I have a purpose in life, and I shouldn’t listen when I’m told different.

As a young girl with an impressionable mind and a fragile heart, everything could tear me apart.

Something so meaningless as a child grew to be the most important thing I own.

From time to time, I sit alone and I read the small paragraph that is written.

I can’t help but cry every time. Not because of what’s written, but because I’m reminiscing.