She was beautiful. Short brown hair curled just slightly and soft as the wind in April. Glass blue eyes, always open wide, looking upon the world in wonder. Her smile was enchanting, causing the world to warm and sit still and gaze upon her. Her hands were fragile and soft, small and petite, and fit perfectly in mine. Her laugh was a whimsical, only a few ever got to hear. The freckles on her cheek and shoulder were like dust, begging to be touched and cradled. She sat like a doll, delicate and vulnerable to this world. She was so beautiful even after two years of her sitting in the glass case. Knitted shoes, wilted roses, a pink can of cigars saying in bright red letters, “it’s a girl!” all laid besides her. All of that means nothing now, her silent babbling echoes into my ears. She was beautiful.