Magazine and writing resources 

Hush. She is sleeping.

See the plump curve of her cheeks still pink from laughter and long play, her lashes

soft and silky as spiders’ webs, see the tributaries of rivers traced on her lids, blue

and green shading to violet, feathered like the wings of a bird.

Observe, too, how her auburn curls are disordered, how they have escaped their

loose binding, how they catch the sparks that fly from these embers, hold them in

their spirals like stars.

Hush. She is sleeping. See how she gathers to her heart the rag doll made lately by

her grandma. See the buttercups and daisies she wears as her crown.

Hush. She is sleeping now. Gone.