I remember the way she held ther stuffed animal,
And her son's hand,
As she sat in the church pew in the late morning.
Behind her her family.
In front her daughter locked in a pale pale pink box.
THe burning in her eyes,
Like the burning in my nose as he used inncense.
Her hair a mess,
And her contacts still by the sink.
Her son dressed up,
Her daughter dressed in white, locked in a pale pale pink box.
She hugged me as I looked at her,
My eyes salty puffy,
Her eyes red.
One hand tightly gripping a last memory.
One comforting her son.
Over 100 bells rang
She took a pale pink rose off the box,
Kept in out in the open.
The look on her face,
As she kissed her hand then touched the pale pale pink box.
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