Queen

Do you remember how she walked?
I could almost swear
she forgot to touch the ground,
or that she didn't know
that's how most of us do it.
She laughed, sometimes,
and the trees would laugh with her.
I wanted her to be safe here.
I wanted to tell her it would be all right,
that it would always be sunshine,
and all the other little lies
we want so desperately to believe.

Do you remember how she loved?
She was kinder than the rest of us,
but never proud,
never gave herself airs.
The children loved her so.
Remember the day they made her a little crown
all out of cardboard and glue, and glitter that stuck in her hair?
They called her the queen of town,
and she kissed their little foreheads, one by one,
and squeezed their little hands.

Do you remember how she left?
She wouldn't say what took her away,
but her bed was made that morning.
A little note we couldn't read
told us all we needed to know.
We put the golden crown on the wall
and hung it by a nail in the living room.
Sometimes I see it and remember.
I don't shed many tears these days,
but sometimes I see it and remember.

(Photo credit: "R0011196.JPG" from Sigfrid Lundberg on Flickr)

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