The urn is a mournful thing,
echoes of words she used to sing.
Crystallized teardrops turned into ash,
steel wrapped around her like a sash.
Dozens have cried,
knowing how hard she had tried.
She relentlessly fought,
although by death she was desperately sought.
The last she heard was her grandchildren's voices,
leaving her with only two choices.
She could leave,
forcing her family to grieve...
Or she could stay,
only she had the price to pay.
Extreme and brutal pain,
like an endless winter rain.
She chose to be free,
but at first I thought she abandoned me.
"It was a nightmare," I told myself,
but the urn was sitting on it's shelf.
Looking now at this white stuffed bear,
I think of the memories we were blessed enough to share.
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