The second she opened her eyes,
a tomato-red and wailing creature,
they wrapped her in a pale pink blanket.
Fluffy, precious, and made of wool,
it was soft enough for an infant to cuddle,
but tough enough to last a lifetime.
They named her Ruby, after the fiery red stone
then hugged her and kissed
her strawberry-stained lips

In preschool, she fought over cars and trains with boys.
And during break, she played “monsters” and “police”
instead of dress up and princess games.

In first grade she played tag and ran around,
while the others jeered at her in silky pink tutus,
garnished in sparkles and little golden crowns.

Then came second.
She went to school in shorts and black t-shirts
and went home daily with paint-smeared fingers
She read about dinosaurs and galaxies far away
And dreamed of being an astronaut.

Third grade. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth.
She grew from a lively girl from a field of daisies,
into a shadow among the regal pine trees
Carrying a ripped backpack on beaten shoulders
and baggy dark circles beneath
once silver-now-rusty eyes

One day, there was no girl.
Just a pink blanket, made of wool.
But nobody ever wondered
how something so tough
can only last
eleven years.