Little sister

I remember her at the age of six,
her eyes and smile aglow.

She was the light from the sun,
and her passing: dark of night.

Knowing she was going soon,
we grieved while she still lived.

At the age of seven her face changed, puffy as a "dough boy" babe.

She fought the lump at the base of her brain, science couldn't touch.

Her laughter cut through our weeping tears, valiant in the face of tragedy.

My soul it burned-no end in sight,
the day I saw her chest rise no more.