The Mother To His Daughter

Dark hair Anemic skin Soft misty eyes So young how could I know T’was only on her good days I was allowed by her bedside In an ever quiet house Shades drawn Kids told to hush No reason given I vaguely remember relatives Their silent grim faces Lined up taking turns Down to the end of the hall While I eyed in the corner That tall off-limits piano No one ever played Too young to understand My ever pensive solemn uncle Was dealing with becoming a widower Losing the mother to his daughter My twelve-year old cousin Somehow she’d need to cope Growing up in a grief filled home Where laughter would never be heard The blinds kept drawn For death to linger ever present AP: Honorable Mention 2020 Submitted on February 19, 2018 for STANDARD CONTEST NO 70 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND