There’s a strand
of pearls, and it clings
to her little neck.
So she twirls
them free, around and
around her finger until
Mama slaps
her hand.

Mama’s tight lips
stretch across her
ashen face – wrinkles
and all. Baby, hush,
she tells the girl.
The priest’s gotta talk
now. We gotta say
goodbye soon.

And Mama presses
the clean, powder blue
Kleenex into her daughter’s
hand. But the girl
never cries.
She merely watches,
blinks her baby eyelashes,
while Daddy rests
in peace.