The first crack, that nailed into my tiny glass bottle -

11 years ago, you died, and you were only 25

And I was only 4

You were a daughter to my mother

A glimmering shard in a grave of broken mirrors - 

If I met you, I would've considered you my sister.

Your open casket, dark mahogany, scratched with maple scars

Momma held my tiny little hand in her quivering cold grasp, 

Holding back the tears that should've spilled over the dam of her eyelids - she held back

Wheleving tears wishing to weep only to stay strong, in front of me

I held  'Mr. Snuggles' with my other hand

The rattle in his body - the only hopeful chimes that rangabout in that desolated room

While I gazed into the box of where you slept

Your soft cheeks dusted with pink peony 

You hair, silken ribbons of milk chocolate mixed with caramel streams 

While a cream dress hugged your figure loosely

I wish I could've wrapped my tiny arms around you.

I imagined you'd give one of those embraces that can make anyone's frown flutter to smile.

That could make someone feel like they're squeezing a cloud made of cotton warmed by the sunlight

When you died, I heard so many sweet things about you - 

How you were the honeyed nectar from a glass shiny jar,

That would pour into a porcelain cup - into the bitter tea of our family - 

Just to make the family events a little less dreary

Your mother had told me, you were sleeping beauty - 

Casted in a slumber, awaiting for a prince

To awaken her from this nightmare.

I couldn’t help to believe

I was only 4

I kept wondering

When you would come back

Instead, you were kissed by flame. 

Your casket engulfed in a cranberry heat 

Until all was left

Is specks of dried rosemary