Alice Lives Through Paper

My name is written in paper.

Yet there’s frailty in such a thing.

Water smothers it.

Infants can tear it.

Somehow, my name lives beyond

my own life, my family,

and my children.

Dear Alan. Sweet Leo.

Two of my three were stolen by war.

They never came home,

and had nothing more of my legacy than

a name on a stone,

which is short lived compared to paper.

I see my name but beg to read my children’s,

although seeing them would suffice.

Stone lies above hollow graves,

as we have no bodies to bury.

Some may read my name forever,

but who will read yours?

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