I call my casket Sara.
Sara was my first friend, says Momma, and was to be my last.
No one believed such a skinny little thing would live many hours let alone years.
Poppa built it for me. Its smooth wood is blonde like my hair with curly whorls.
Inside matches my best Sunday dress.
To the touch, she feels cool but soon warms with gentle rubbing.
In her shine, I can see myself…
here and here and here.
Sara waits now in my child’s room, patient and
knowing she will soon have a new playmate
to sleep with