How I will miss that wicked laugh,
that with her flaming red hair reminds me of crackling fire-
ever a hint of danger and mystery, snapping unexpectedly
but warming all within its touch.
I will think often of the glittering eyes:
wide and cunning and never sad,
as if the concept of grief was entirely foreign,
or simply "a waste of good water."
And I know I shan't control the tears
when I remember all the hours spent in envy and jealousy and fear
of all the amazing gifts that were shared.
I also know so well
that she would never allow me to cry over what I think I've squandered,
for her beauty entire is in her strength, not to forgive,
but to have no need of it.
Regardless, I vow
her greatest gift will never be wasted-
the piece of herself I carry and pass on
in every word of this poem
and every smile at her memory.
