Rosaleen
She walked amongst us like an empress wrapped in a robe of emeralds and a crown of shamrocks. Her hair was as pure as a spring morn and her face shone like long glorious summer. But now the leaves have grown golden and have fallen away. Winter strikes its crisp cold fist and now she is nowhere to be found. Where once there was a fountain of glorious laughter is now just a vacant chair. Bare cupboards broadcast shallow echoes of times long past. Photographs carpet an empty floor of silent memories.