As a girl you found
     comfort stitched
           like cinnamon
between the pleats
     of your mother's
         folded fragrance.
We are all a little
     broken but you
          were never brave
like your sister, who
       on winter's first
            snow jaunted
across the white
     while you clutched
          your mother's skirt,
tearful. What does it
      mean to grow up,
           beyond literally
growing up?
     And what do you
          make of the harried
father who never
     returned for happily
          ever after, the seal
of a kiss goodnight?