Small hands reaching
Up towards the edge of the dark
Stained, shiny wood
A pair of hands grip the ribcage
Underneath her arms and she is
Into the embrace of safety
Filling her lungs with the familiar smell
Of lingering cigarette smoke
Mingled with mineral oil
Washed away, except for what has saturated into
The skin and refuses to surrender to soap and water.
The odor of fresh flowers
Flowers from a florist
Not like the ones from the edge of the field where
Threatens to overtake
The scent of refuge.
Turning her face form the starched plaid collar,
Towards the silk-lined box
A feeling of confusion
Floods her thoughts.
“Why is she sleeping?”
Leaning towards the pale hands,
Cool to the touch, as she pats them to attain attention,
“Wake up, Mommy.”