Sweet daughter, it is Christmas morning,
I wish that you could see
the pretty presents in a pile,
under the Christmas tree.
But darling, you’ve been laid to rest,
you’ve been gone now for a while,
and instead of presents you get flowers,
an ever-growing pile.
When you asked me for this necklace
I said “no” because it seemed
too fancy and grown up
for a girl of seventeen.
But darling, you’ve been laid to rest,
you are as old today,
as you will be on a Christmas morning
fifty years away.
You asked me for a camera,
in hopes that you could choose
to immortalize your brightest days,
in photos you would never lose.
But darling, you’ve been laid to rest,
no more memories will be made,
and the smell of perfume in your room
is beginning to fade.
Sweet daughter, it is Christmas morning
and I’m wishing you were here,
as I look down at your snowy grave,
and shed a silent tear.
But darling, you’ve been laid to rest,
you will not get to see
your presents wrapped in gold foil
under the Christmas tree.
