Sniffles and coughs.

Shoes crunching frostbit grass

and raw wind whistling its way through silence.

Generations of family shed tear drops of sorrow

as all gather around a six foot deep pit

that surrounds itself by the frigid December snow.

Unknowing of the grimness of this heartbreak,

sisters glance at the rivers of tears

on faces that have always been so marry.

Puzzled with I’m sorry’s and hugs,

a red, delicate flower is slowly placed into my hands.

A green stem glowing against the uneasy winter day,

and needle like thorns sticking into skin.

This loving flower,

slips and plummets from the hands of a three year old,

to the corrupt terrain that is now the home of her father.

Innocently, she lays this final gift on her father’s new and eternal home.

Ignorant to the fact that her tata will be unable to walk her to school or down the aisle.

Ignorant to the fact that she will no longer have a man that can call her “his little girl.”

For the innocence of her mind only let her question

why the man she dressed in a pink tutu and gave tea,

lays in a smooth oak box, that

sinks into an inescapable pit.