On Sunday you left me, a promised return.
No sign on Monday, the nuns are so stern.
On Tuesday I wept, for the loss of your touch.
On Wednesday, small shoulders that carried too much.
On Thursday I sat and I pondered the future.
On Friday, I placed a cold loveless suture.
It was Saturday when I turned 10,
I stood tall, among the men.
100 years on, I’m an icon above
Immortal through pen,
And my granddaughters’ love.