Made from the heart, made with her hands.
She made it for me, not for some other man.
From paper and crayons with a large scoop of love,
A sketch of our family, seen as only she can.
Where is the daughter who colored for me?
Drew people, and creatures that only she’d see.
A life of her own where I’m not allowed
Where is that girl, quick to smile and so free?
That daughter is gone. Lost on the way.
I wish she was here now. For this thing I pray.
Drugs? Alcohol? The wrong set of friends?
The changes were subtle, and colored with grey.
The picture still hangs in a frame on the wall,
I linger and stare when I walk down the hall.
The daughter is gone but her memory’s here.
I lie awake nights, hoping she’ll call.
tnkerr-Writing Prompts and Practice 