Hosanna Joy

Her lips were purple,
her face a powder white.
I knew my baby sister wasn’t right.
“She’s now in heaven,”
said a mother torn in grief.
“For the first time she knows relief.”
An unfinished pine box,
made by my father’s hands.
Everyone in a daze of funeral plans.
“Goodbye baby sister,
there are few as strong as you.
We won’t forget battles you fought through.”
Holding tight the ribbon,
my balloon dark maroon.
Let it go. Watch the crowd disperse too soon.
Just a memory
in a five-year-old’s mind.
Deepened with my seasons and outlined.

View All Stories By Mary Grace van der Kroef