Somebody's Daughter

We all carry pieces of her,
for luck, I suppose,
perhaps for a glimpse
of who we used to be:
for me, I was once,
somebody's daughter.

A string of glittering crystal beads
now encircle my neck,
while a pale green stuffed frog
takes up residence
on an unmade bed,
and a Kodachrome picture
of the three of them
hangs next to the sharp
metal corner of a locker.

These are talismans, for us,
our sad treasures,
but an easy form of solice for those
who lost track of her,
such that she was.

What claim do we have on these things,
her things, even on her?
We lost our rights
when our busy selves couldn't stop
our incessant moving, doing,
or even look up
as she slipped away, a whisp of
flesh, hair, and bone gone,
gone, gone,
under the door.