Anna, he called
and she emerged from the car.
Dear God, help me not to show
Clean and tidy, I suppose but
Child bereft, coming up for thirteen
clumsily trying to manage platforms -
fashion must hold sway - at least
she wiped them well upon the doormat.
But her hair, unkempt, does it ever
see a brush? Perhaps the tangles hurt
along with all the rest for her mother
is not long buried.
And it is years since I have
seen her youngest -
what am I to do with this curled up
Anna, hiding her face and her grief
behind rebellious hair.