And she got a pony

My girl loved ponies.
Shelves and shelves of stuffed ponies.
You could barely see her bed under them.
My girl liked to draw ponies.
She drew them everywhere.
When she got older, she got a pony tattoo on her arm.
She thought it would cover up the needle tracks.
But it didn’t. We knew. And we tried to stop her.
We couldn’t.
We buried her in pink pony pajamas.
Wrapped in her favorite pony blanket.
Out by the pony farm we used to go to every summer.
Before the drugs took her on the last, long ride of her life.

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